


Tell me why

by LakeWitch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Afghanistan, Annie Lennox Music, Anonymity, Bisexual Harry Potter, Brief reference to injury/blood but everyone's okay, Brief reference to past suicidal ideation, But don't get too excited because this is smut-free, Childhood diary, Chocolate, Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Harry Potter, Flowers, Fluff, Gay Draco Malfoy, Hospitals, Kahlil Gibran Poetry, Love Confessions, M/M, Neville Longbottom just loves love, POV Harry Potter, Professor Harry Potter, Professor Neville Longbottom, Sharing a Bed, Snogging, The merits of risk-taking, and is a Good Friend, anonymous gifts, hand-holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21827515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LakeWitch/pseuds/LakeWitch
Summary: Harry Potter has been the DADA Professor at Hogwarts for nearly ten years. And it's fine. It might even be good, possibly. He's ... comfortable.After all, Harry gets to see Neville every day. He's got great students. Sure, he's been single for nearly five years, but relationships aren't everything. He's fine. It's a decent life.Strange gifts begin to arrive in the post—unsigned, and accompanied by cryptic little notes that make absolutely no sense. They come from places he'd never expect: Zimbabwe, Kenya, Afghanistan.Harry thinks it's only a disturbed fan, and wishes Neville and his students would just leave it alone.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 90
Kudos: 564





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a general warning to keep in mind: there is swearing
> 
> Small/undetailed references to blood, injury, past suicidal ideation will be in later chapters

‘The medicinal properties of Ortocius root are _unparalleled_ ,’ emphasized Neville. 

‘Mm,’ Harry acknowledged, taking a bite out of his buttered toast. 

At that, the owls arrived to the Great Hall, delivering the morning post. Their feathered bodies obscured the bright blue sky depicted on the enchanted ceiling, as the air filled with the sound of beating wings and students' cries of excitement. 

From the Professor’s table, Harry gaze flitted over the birds to the four long student tables outstretched in front of him, and his sight caught on one of his favourite students, Lila. The 2nd year was blond, sharp as a whip, and, Slytherin. 

A package dropped down in front of the girl, which she excitedly ripped open to reveal a box of chocolates—probably sent by her mum. Lila waved the box around in front of her friends’ faces, before opening it up, and passing them around to share. Harry smiled a little wistfully. 

‘—When mixed with green tea it can be applied as a salve to treat burns,’ Neville continued. 

A pile of letters dropped near Harry’s plate with a flop, so he set his toast down and, after brushing the crumbs on his fingers onto his trousers, he picked them up. He shuffled the envelopes in his hands in order to read the return addresses. There was one from Hermione, one from Luna, and one from Charlie. 

Then a cube-shaped package, about the size of a Quaffle, dropped down in front of him as well—knocking over a basket of bagels. Harry tucked his letters beside his plate and picked up the package instead, ignoring the toppled baked goods. 

He turned it over in his hands—it was wrapped neatly in brown paper, and tied with string. There was no return address or sender’s name, just a carefully written: “Professor Harry Potter at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, care of International Owl Post Office, London, UK.” It was rather curious. 

‘What’s that?’ asked Neville, leaning closer to take a look, with dirty-blond waves partially obstructing Harry’s view. 

Harry shrugged. ‘No idea,’ he said to the back of Neville’s head. 

‘Look at the Owl Post checkpoints,’ Neville said, pointing at the ink marks on the brown paper with his stubby fingers. Harry peered closer to see where Neville was indicating. ‘It’s come from London; then Paris before that; then Athens, Cairo, Cape Town, and, finally: Harare, Zimbabwe.’ Neville’s eyes widened as he turned to Harry. ‘Who do you know in Zimbabwe, Harry?’ 

‘No one,’ Harry said, staring at the package, baffled. 

Just to be safe, Harry took out his wand from his blazer pocket and performed diagnostic spells on the package. It contained a stasis spell and a standard protection spell—something to keep whatever was inside from become broken, presumably. Nothing dark or dangerous as far as he could tell. So, he untied the string and removed the wrapping. It was just a plain, brown, cardboard box inside, with no markings. He wedged a thumb under the flap and opened it. 

Harry’s brow furrowed. ‘It’s …' he said, pulling it out. 

Neville’s eyebrows raised. ‘An African Violet. Lovely.’ 

Evidently, thanks to Neville’s ability to name any plant, it was a little potted African Violet, then. The thing had rings of fuzzy, round green leaves and delicate purple flowers in the center. 

‘What does it … do?’ Harry asked Neville, without averting his eyes from the cheerful little plant. 

Neville chuckled. ‘It doesn’t _do_ anything. It’s just a flower. No magical properties whatsoever.’ 

‘Why would …' Harry began to ask, trailing off as he spotted a hint of white tucked under the leaves. 

‘Your guess is better than mine,’ Neville said. 

‘Oh! Nice flower you got there, Harry,’ said Hagrid from Harry’s other side. 

‘Er, thanks,’ Harry answered, tossing Hagrid a glance, but Hagrid was already resuming his conversation with Slughorn. 

Harry pulled the bit of white out from under the leaves and set the plant down. It was a scrap of parchment, folded up. He unfolded it quickly and stared at the note incomprehensibly. He didn’t recognize the elegant, neat handwriting. 

‘What does it say?’ asked Neville, unable to wait any longer. 

Harry licked his lips. ‘It says …

” **How many times do I have to try to tell you  
That I'm sorry for the things I've done?  
But when I start to try to tell you  
That's when you have to tell me  
Hey... this kind of trouble's only just begun**”’

Neville peered at the note thoughtfully. ‘Any idea on what that’s supposed to mean?’

Harry shook his head. 

‘”I’m sorry for the things I’ve done,”’ Neville quoted, tilting his head pensively. ‘Has someone wronged you, Harry? Then sailed off to Africa?’ 

Harry opened his mouth and closed it. _Wronged him?_ ‘No one.’ 

Neville hummed thoughtfully. 

‘This is very weird.’ Harry looked at the plant, then at Neville. 

The man laughed. ‘Maybe it’s just one of your many fans. They might’ve gone on vacation in Zimbabwe, and wanted to be mysterious and pique your interest with their odd-ness.’ 

‘Maybe,’ Harry echoed, though he wasn’t quite sure. ‘Zimbabwe isn’t exactly a popular tourist destination for British wizards though, is it?’ 

Neville shrugged, taking a bite of bacon.

~~

Harry placed his plant on the windowsill of his modest staff quarters. It looked nice there, bringing some colour into the all-too-brown room. He had just the one window that looked out towards the Quidditch Pitch. The room was also furnished with a single bed that he’d covered with an old faded quilt from Molly, there was an old oak desk where he marked his students’ tests and papers in the corner, and a frayed-on-the-edges brown plaid armchair near the small hearth.

He thumbed one of the fuzzy leaves, lost in thought, when a knock on his door interrupted his musings. He walked the few lengths over to the door to open it. 

It was Neville, standing there with a thick book in his arms. 

‘Neville. What’s up?’ he asked. 

Neville smiled. ‘Heya, can I come in for a sec?’ 

Nodding, Harry opening the door wider for Neville to enter. Neville sat in Harry’s one armchair, so Harry took the wooden chair at the desk. 

‘I’ve got this book, you see. It’s a Muggle one,’ Neville began. ‘So, supposedly, for Muggles, certain flowers have symbolic meanings to them when they’re gift-giving. And I thought you might like to hear what your flower represents, that is ... in case your admirer was sending a message?’ 

‘My admirer?’ Harry asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Neville shrugged, smiling cheekily. 

Harry sighed, deciding to indulge Neville and his Muggle book. ‘Alright, then, what does your book say it means?’ 

Neville smiled, flipping his book open, and searching for Harry’s flower. His eyes, and index finger, raked over the pages until he found what he was looking for. His eyes widened a fraction as he began to read. ‘The African Violet is a symbol of loyalty, strength, courage, devotion, and the deepest of love commitment.’ Neville’s gaze flicked to Harry and back. ‘A gift of purple African Violet flowers has a deep spiritual love meaning.’ 

Harry shrugged. ‘So, they think they love me, then. Isn’t too different from the weird fan mail I get from time to time.’ 

Neville looked a bit disappointed. ‘I suppose …' 

Harry managed a weak smile. ‘Well ... thanks, Neville.’ 

Neville nodded, and stood up tentatively. It seemed like he was considering saying something, but thought better of it. ‘Well I’ll be going, then. See you at dinner, Harry.’ 

Harry smiled, properly this time. ‘See you, Nev.’

~~

A few weeks passed and Harry had already written off the flower and accompanying cryptic message as the workings of some crazed fan. He was enjoying his flower though, keeping it carefully watered. He even gave it plant food from time to time, under Neville’s advice.

However, at breakfast time on an unremarkable Wednesday, he received another package in the post. He stared down at it with lips pressed firmly together. 

Neville was far more excited than Harry, for some reason. ‘Well, open it!’ he urged. 

Harry exhaled. Then he cast diagnostic spells again, to see if it was a trap this time. 

It wasn’t. 

The post-markings on this one indicated it’d come from Nairobi, Kenya. 

‘Kenya,’ he whispered. 

‘Fascinating,’ Neville exclaimed. 

He opened it. It contained boxes of chocolates. There was a folded piece of white parchment in the bottom. 

He unfolded the paper carefully, and read aloud, for Neville’s sake.

‘” **I tell myself too many times  
Why don't you ever learn to keep your big mouth shut?  
That's why it hurts so bad to hear the words  
That keep on falling from your mouth.**”’ 

Harry sighed. It still didn’t mean anything to him.

‘Hmm. Someone with a big mouth?’ Neville pondered. ‘And you’ve hurt them with your words?’ 

‘I haven’t done anything, Neville.’ The notes were no more than gibberish, as far as Harry was concerned. 

Neville rubbed his chin thoughtfully, staring at the note in Harry’s hand. 

The chocolates were delicious.

~~

Harry walked between his students’ desks, passing back marked quizzes.

He lay Lila’s on her desk—another perfect score—when she stopped him. ‘Sir?’ 

‘Yes, Lila?’ He didn’t buy-in to the whole “call your students by their last names” rubbish. He preferred they call him by his first name, and vice versa. (Though many of them still called him “sir”, out of habit with the other teachers.) First names just seemed more conducive to learning, in his opinion and experience. They needed to be able to speak to one another as people, with none of that “respect me or else” attitude that professors like Snape had favoured. Respect is _earned_ , and has nothing to do with formality. With Harry's way, he found the students actually spoke their minds—and came to him with their problems. 

‘I’ve noticed you’ve been receiving gifts. Who are they from?’ 

Ah. On the other hand, maybe he should think about enforcing boundaries a little more. ‘It’s … nothing.’ 

Lila lifted an eyebrow. She didn’t believe him. 

Harry looked around his classroom, seeing every set of twelve-year-old eyes on him. ‘Right. Well, if you _must_ know.’ He really shouldn’t be indulging them … ‘The two packages I have received recently have been anonymous.’ 

A few ‘Ooo’s echoed from around the room. Harry sighed. ‘It isn’t unusual for me to get fan mail.’ He winced right after he said it. Those words sounded so vain and narcissistic. Pretentious. 

‘Yes, but it is unusual to receive gifts, isn’t it, sir?’ 

Harry pressed his lips together. Perhaps. But it wasn’t _that_ strange. ‘I don’t think so. Now, I’m going to finish handing these back, and then we’re going to practice Protego.’

~~

Another day it was a stuffed toy. A Hungarian Horntail—with the package coming straight from Lake Balaton, Hungary. They were in Europe, then? The African vacation was over for them, presumably.

‘You’re being _wooed_ , Harry,’ Neville said, peering at the toy in awe. 

It was a rather cute thing, in a spikey way. 

‘What are you talking about?’ Harry asked, idly flapping one of the toy’s wings. 

‘Flowers, chocolates, now a stuffed toy. It reminds me of Muggle mating rituals. The man traditionally gifts the woman with flowers, chocolates, and teddy bears. It’s in all the romance films.’ 

Harry grimaced. ‘I am _not_ the woman in whatever hairbrained scenario this is that I find myself in.’ 

Neville shrugged, grinning. ‘Nonetheless, I think you’re being wooed, Muggle-style.’ 

Harry shot Neville a pained look. 

‘Where’s the note anyhow?’ 

Harry sighed, and dug around in the box for the next cryptic note.

‘” **I may be mad  
I may be blind  
I may be viciously unkind  
But I can still read what you're thinking  
And I've heard it said too many times  
That you'd be better off**.”’

‘They’re viciously unkind? You’d be better off?’ Neville asked.

Harry shrugged. It meant nothing to him. No one had wronged him. His last relationship ended years ago, and it’d ended amicably. They’d just … wanted different things. Harry had been ready to settle down, maybe start a family. Dillon, well, he’d wanted to keep clubbing and enjoying his twenties. Last Harry had heard, he was still on the party scene in London. 

And before Dillon, it’d been Ginny. Neither had been “viciously unkind”, not at all. 

Neville took a sharp intake of breath. ‘You _must_ know each other. All these messages seem so heartfelt. And … rather sad, don’t you think?’ 

‘I think they sound deranged,’ Harry murmured, reading the note over again. ‘At least they admit they’re mad.’ 

He looked up, and happened to catch Lila’s eye. The girl looked pointedly at his stuffed dragon and lifted an eyebrow, and Harry shook his head, shrugging. She whispered to her friends and pointed over to him. Harry had to suppress a roll of his eyes—they were far too invested in this. It was nothing. Probably.

~~

A few weeks later, it was a Muggle “compact disc” sent from Kenya, again. Zimbabwe to Kenya to Hungary, and back to Kenya. What did it all mean?

He couldn’t even play the c.d. within Hogwarts, of course, since Muggle technology didn’t work within the castle walls. 

It had a photo of a blond androgynous-looking woman on the cover, with the words, “The Annie Lennox Collection”. 

‘They’re sending you music, now,’ Neville commented with a knowing tone. ‘The language of love.’ 

Harry turned it over, and read the track listing. It all meant absolutely nothing to him, and he was no closer in unravelling the mystery. 

‘Go on, read the note,’ Neville urged.

‘” **Besides...  
Why can't you see this boat is sinking? **

**Let's go down to the water's edge  
And we can cast away those doubts **

**Some things are better left unsaid  
But they still turn me inside out**.”’

‘Better left unsaid,’ Neville echoed, thoughtfully.

Harry didn’t know what to say.

~~

‘Professor! Harry! Sir!’

Harry paused in his tracks, and whirled around to find Lila and her group of friends excitedly coming down the hall towards him. ‘Don’t you girls have a class to attend?’ 

‘Professor Trelawney has a cold.’ 

‘Ah.’ 

Lila exchanged looks with her friends, and, ever the spokesperson, asked, ‘Have you figured out who your gift-giver is yet?’ 

This again. He pursed his lips, inhaling slowly through his nose. ‘No.’ 

‘But you got a c.d.!’ Lila’s friend Brit chimed in. 

‘I did. It was anonymous, like all the others.’ 

‘But you’ve gotten four gifts now!’ their other friend Tejal insisted. 

‘Yes,’ Harry agreed. ‘And none of them were signed.’ 

‘But we always see you opening little notes!’ Tejal added. 

‘They’re just lines from a poem or something.’ 

The girls exchanged curious looks with each other. 

Lila’s eyes whipped back up to Harry. ‘You must know!’ she insisted. 

‘I don’t.’ Harry was getting weary of this, and he’d been wanting to sneak off to the kitchens for a tea and a slice of treacle tart. ‘You’re all far too invested in this. There’s no story here. It’s just a fan, nothing more.’ 

‘But they’re romantic!’ Tejal piped up. Her face lit up, all wistful-like, as if he were some character in a romance novel. 

‘Girls,’ Harry emphasized. ‘I will let you know if I find out who the sender is, alright? In the meantime, you can stop ambushing me.’ 

All of them frowned at once. 

‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to.’ Tea-business. It was important—much more important than silly gifts. He didn’t wait for a reply from the girls, and stalked off towards the kitchens.

~~

Next, it was a book of poems, sent from Kenya, again.

‘ _Poetry_!’ said Neville. ‘Another romantic gesture!’ 

‘I … suppose.’ Harry was starting to get the feeling ... that he might need to accept … that this _might_ ( _might_ ) not be some ordinary fan. Instead, this might all be … personal. But everyone he knew was in the United Kingdom (not including Charlie in Romania, but … surely it wasn’t him either). So, really, it did not make sense. 

The book was titled “The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran. The typical scrap of parchment was tucked into the book this time, like a bookmark. 

Harry opened it, and read the note first, out loud.

’” **This is the book I never read  
These are the words I never said  
This is the path I'll never tread  
These are the dreams I'll dream instead**.”’

Harry inhaled sharply. _The words I never said._ It was … it was all … becoming too much.

Neville sighed dreamily. 

_Neville_ was … too much. About this. 

Harry’s eyes drifted to the book. He read the passage that the paper had bookmarked: 

**THEN said Almitra, Speak to us of Love.  
And he raised his head and looked upon  
the people, and there fell a stillness upon  
them. And with a great voice he said:  
When love beckons to you, follow him,  
Though his ways are hard and steep.  
And when his wings enfold you yield to  
him,  
Though the sword hidden amongst his  
pinions may wound you.  
And when he speaks to you believe in  
him,  
Though his voice may shatter your dreams  
as the north wind lays waste the garden. **

**For even as love crowns you so shall he  
crucify you. Even as he is for your growth  
so is he for your pruning.  
Even as he ascends to your height and  
caresses your tenderest branches that quiver  
in the sun,  
So shall he descend to your roots and  
shake them in their clinging to the earth. **

Harry handed it over wordlessly to Neville, so that he could read it too. 

After a while, Neville said, ‘Wow … Who could they _be_?’ 

‘Haven’t the faintest,’ Harry replied softly. Should he know? Is he supposed to just _know_?

~~

The school year had just finished. Harry was all packed and ready to live at Grimmauld Place again for the summer. He’d hang out with his friends, might take a holiday. Maybe he’d finally put the work in to redecorate the old house. Tend to the garden …

There was one last breakfast before the Hogwarts Express would take them back to London. 

Coincidently, or not, there was one last package for Harry. At least, any more mail would have to find its way to Grimmauld Place, or wait for him at Hogwarts until autumn. 

The sight of it filled Harry with a mixture of emotions he couldn’t even begin to unpack. 

‘Another book?’ Neville wondered. It certainly was book-shaped, again. 

This one came from Lashkar-Gah, Afghanistan. Harry performed his customary diagnostic spells, before unwrapping it. His spells revealed traces of old concealment magic, old warding—enchantments that would’ve once kept it hidden and locked away. Those spells had all been lifted recently. Within a few months. 

‘Afghanistan … Neville, I’m beginning to think these are not vacation places.’ Wasn’t there some kind of conflict there? 

Neville hummed thoughtfully. 

It was a thick leather book, indeed. It didn’t have any markings on the outside. Just the usual white parchment—this time taped flat to the front. It read:

’” **This is the joy that’s seldom spread  
These are the tears…  
The tears we shed  
This is the fear  
This is the dread  
These are the contents of my head  
And these are the years that we have spent  
And this is what they represent **

**And this is how I feel  
Do you know how I feel?  
‘Cause I don’t think you know how I feel**.”’

Harry’s pulse had quickened, and he was almost afraid to open it. He held it in his hands, keeping the book closed tight. He just knew … he just knew there was something significant inside it.

Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to see, let alone share. 

Neville nodded at Harry knowingly. ‘Go on, then, take it somewhere private.’ 

Harry exhaled slowly, looking at Neville with trepidation written all over his face. Then, nodding, he pushed his chair back and walked slowly out of the Great Hall and towards his room, hugging the book tight to his chest. 

He opened his bedroom window to let in a cool summer breeze, and looked down at the happy Violet on the windowsill. It had done well this year, it had grown, and it still had flowers. Neville had told him that was a good sign of health. He rubbed a thumb over one of its fuzzy leaves, perhaps for luck. Perhaps for courage. 

Then Harry slumped down at his desk, and placed the book in front of him. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal. Another collection of poems, perhaps. 

_And this is how I feel._

Harry inhaled slowly, and opened it up to the front page. 

He blinked at it in disbelief. 

It looked to be a child’s drawing. 

He looked closer. 

It was definitely a child’s drawing. Someone very young, under ten. Harry wasn’t much of a judge on that front, though. 

They’d depicted what looked like two boys, hand in hand. One was shaded in brown and had a black lightning bolt scar. The other wasn’t shaded, so he was the same white of the page. And he had a smattering of yellow pencil crayon drawn hair. Both had wide smiles. 

There was grass, flowers, a smiling sun, and clouds. 

He turned the page. What followed were more pages of doodles, of lightning bolts, castles, and brown boys, along with near-illegible words, things like “HERY POTR IS MY FREND”, or “FATHER TOLED ME HERY POTER IS ALIV AND I WIL MEAT HIM AT HOGWARTS”, “MUM TOT ME TO SPEL HARRY POTTER”, and “HARRY POTTER HARRY POTTER HARRY POTTER”. 

Then the writing changed abruptly to something more legible: 

**Harry Potter wasn’t supposed to have glasses.  
** **And he wasn’t supposed to be in Gryffindor.**  
**~~And he was supposed to be my friend.~~**

Then there were pages of unflattering doodles of Harry, falling off broomsticks, or looking sad on the Hogwarts Express with the word “expelled” in large letters. 

‘What is this,’ Harry mused aloud. 

He kept turning the pages, reading bitter messages of scorn, of anger, about him. There was just one person he could think of who had spent this much energy, and this much time, hating him. Someone who’d be drawn with yellow pencil crayon hair, and skin the white of parchment paper. And that person, of course, was Draco Malfoy. 

But why on earth would Draco Malfoy send chocolates, send flowers, send poetry about love, along with cryptic messages ... only to cap all those lovely gifts off with a hateful diary? 

_And this is how I feel_

Perhaps, Draco Malfoy was barking mad. 

The train would be departing soon. Harry closed the book and tucked it into his satchel. He picked up his plant, and pocketed his shrunken luggage, and made his way down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far ❤️ Feedback is welcome
> 
> This story is complete, I'll get it all posted by the end of tomorrow I think !
> 
> -"Why" was written by Annie Lennox, and is copyright Universal Music Publishing Group, BMG Rights Management, Songtrust Ave, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC  
> -Kahlil Gibran's "The Prophet" is in the public domain (as of Jan. 1, 2019)


	2. Chapter 2

Harry relaxed into a compartment with Neville, stretching his legs out with a sigh. Neville eyed him. 

‘Another year done, then,’ said Neville, casting Harry significant looks. 

‘Mmhmm,’ Harry responded, and closed his eyes. 

The train started to move—rattling and picking up speed. Harry glanced out the window, watching the wide plains of Scotland begin to whip by. 

Neville took out a novel and began reading silently, peeking up at Harry through his eyelashes from time to time. 

Harry exhaled, and rubbed his face. 

He remembered the last time he’d seen Draco Malfoy. It’d been just after the war, just after his trial. Harry had been grieving at the time, had been broken. And still, he had made himself testify for Draco. He’d forced himself to show up—despite never wishing to leave his bed again. 

Harry had explained that Draco had lowered his wand against Dumbledore. That he’d never killed anyone—Dumbledore himself had said it, that Draco wasn’t a killer. And he’d told them all about how Draco had saved him, in the Manor then. When he’d said, “I can’t be sure.” How that single moment had been pivotal in winning the war, because it’d bought them time for a chance to escape—any other answer would’ve meant Harry’s death. 

He’d said how Draco had shouted at his friends Crabbe and Goyle _not_ to kill Harry. How Draco’s wand had been the one to defeat Voldemort, and how Harry so easily had taken the wand from Draco. Almost as if he allowed it. And maybe he had ... 

Draco had listened to all this, with head bowed. With hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. 

Draco had approached Harry afterwards, looking worn out, drained, sickly and much-too-thin. He’d extended a hand out, mirroring that first day on the Hogwarts Express. And, again, Harry had refused it. Because 4 words spoken out of uncertainty in the Manor, and an extended hand after a trial, could not possibly make up for everything else. 

The hand had dropped awkwardly to Draco’s side. His eyelids lowered and his mouth pressed into a firm line. Then, Draco had said, ‘Thank you.’ 

Draco sent Harry letters. And Harry returned them all unopened. He hadn’t been interested in whatever Draco had to say. He was too sad, and Draco had been a reminder of everything that went _wrong_. He’d been a Death Eater, he’d let those monsters into Hogwarts, he’d nearly killed Ron. It all seemed contradictory now, after having testified in support of Draco back then. But at the time, Harry didn’t want to hear any pitiful excuses from Draco, and he certainly hadn’t wanted to be his _friend_. He’d already done his part to help Draco, and that had been all he’d had left to give. 

Eventually, the letters stopped. And Harry had never seen or heard from the man again. (Until … this year?) 

Harry opened his eyes, and looked at Neville. ‘What do you know about Draco Malfoy these days?’ 

Neville visibly startled. He placed his book down and regarded Harry with wide-eyes. ‘Draco Malfoy,’ he echoed. ‘Merlin … I haven’t thought about him in years.’ 

Harry sighed. He couldn’t say the same, although he’d had every reason _not_ to think of him. Still, though, sometimes he had. He’d wondered about the man—wondered what he was doing. If he was okay. ‘Any idea on what became of him?’ 

Neville shook his head. ‘None.’ 

Harry ran a hand through his black curls, frowning. 

‘You could talk to Luna, though. I believe they were friends … and may still be.’ 

Harry’s gaze snapped to Neville. ‘They were?’ 

Neville nodded. Then a puzzled look appeared on his face. ‘Why are you asking?’ 

‘Just curious.’ 

‘Right …' Neville remarked. Then, his eyes grew wider. ‘It isn’t … Merlin, no, it couldn’t be?’ 

‘I don’t know what you’re try to say,’ Harry murmured, pretending to be interested in something in the distance through the window. 

‘Bloody hell. Your admirer all along was Draco sodding Malfoy.’ 

Harry shut his eyes tight. 

‘Wow, just … wow.’ 

Harry grunted. ‘Please don’t say anything, alright? To anyone.’ 

Neville nodded, still dumbstruck. The gears in his head were turning, and it seemed like he wanted to keep talking about it. 

Harry sighed. Now that the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, he’d might as well continue reading. 

Neville watched with wide eyes as Harry took the book out of his satchel. He picked his own book up though, giving Harry a little privacy. But his eyes would stray over periodically, with a puzzled wrinkle between his eyebrows, as if he couldn’t quite help himself. 

Harry opened up to where he had left off. 

The journal was terribly predictable. Draco Malfoy had despised him, that much was abundantly clear. Harry read the recapping of their time at Hogwarts together, with a frown. The Quidditch games lost, the House Cups awarded to Gryffindor at the last moment, the trivialities, the pettiness. It … was all manifesting an ache in Harry’s chest. 

Those hateful words, the words about Ron and Hermione. Lupin, Neville, Hagrid. All the people Harry loves. Harry almost felt … sorry for Draco Malfoy. Holding that much hate inside of him. It had to have been miserable. 

Harry was glossing through the 4th year entries when he paused around the Yule Ball. 

**Potter is rubbish at dancing.  
I should’ve...  
I should’ve pried him out of Patil’s hands and taught him myself. **

**I wonder if he would’ve let me.  
Who am I kidding? He would’ve hit me.**

Harry exhaled, closing the book with a snap, while his eyes darted over to Neville (who was pretending not to pay attention). ‘This is Draco Malfoy’s childhood diary.’ 

Neville looked over. ‘Oh?’ 

Harry rubbed his forehead. ‘I don’t … understand it …' 

‘Have you finished reading it all?’ 

Harry found himself looking at the diary, as his mind replayed what he’d just read. ‘I’m in 4th year,’ he murmured. Merlin … just imagining Draco Malfoy cutting in on him and Parvati, and wanting to dance with _him_ and not _her_. Draco was probably wrong … Harry wouldn’t have hit him. But he might’ve had a heart attack. 

‘Oh. I see. Anything interesting yet?’ 

He licked his lips, as he thought back to the beginning of it. ‘He’d been a bit obsessed with me as a child, I guess. Thought we’d become friends.’ 

Neville was nodding. ‘Everyone was curious about you, I think.’ 

‘Yeah? Well ... this seems beyond curiosity. He drew pictures of me, wrote my name over and over.’ 

Neville snorted, looking _amused_. ‘That’s a bit cute.’ 

‘He’d wanted to dance with me at the Yule Ball.’ It was just so … preposterous an idea. So strange that it was hard to get the image of it out of his mind. Draco … with one hand on the small of his back … the other holding Harry’s, as they danced in loopy circles on the dancefloor. In front of everyone. Merlin … 

Neville exhaled his breath in a whoosh. ‘I see.’ 

Harry’s eyes darted to Neville’s. ‘You’re not … surprised?’ Because Harry certainly was. 

Neville shrugged. ‘You were always both a bit … overly interested in each other.’ _Obsessed_ , that was what Hermione used to say. ‘I guess he’d had a crush, all those years ago.’ 

‘But—’ Harry stopped himself. He wanted to protest, because it didn’t make _sense_. Draco Malfoy had always hated him. 

Neville shot him a lopsided smile. ‘Keep reading, then.’ 

So, Harry opened the book up again. Fifth year was a lot of the same, until, it wasn’t. 

**That wretched Potter.  
He has no business looking like that. **

**My traitorous heart...**

Harry kept flipping pages. 

Then it was 6th year and Draco’s tone changed dramatically. He was terrified, he was depressed, he wanted to … 

**I want to die.**

**I want to die, I want to die.**

**I want it all to go away.**

**I want to be somebody else. Far away from here.**

**I can’t do it. I can’t. Not what he’s asking. I can’t.**

**It would be so much easier... I could raid the potion’s cabinet for something poisonous.**

**And then it would all just... go away.**

‘Oh god,’ Harry uttered. He felt _so sorry_ for Draco Malfoy. It was just … so sad. Why hadn’t he ever realised how awful it was for him? 

Well, perhaps because it was all _so awful_ for Harry too, back then. 

**But I can’t. For mother’s sake. **

**But... how can I go on?**

Harry rubbed his eyes, under his glasses. He remembered … he remembered that miserable year. 

**Potter tried to kill me.**

Cold shame prickled up Harry’s spine. 

**I could’ve thanked him for it. But it didn’t work.**

**Didn’t stick.**

**Despite everything... I can’t help but**

**I can’t help but feel...**

**Unbearable agony that he would nearly kill me one day,**

**and become the Weaslette’s boyfriend the next day.**

**He doesn’t care... or give two shits about me. Which I expect. But... the next day? **

**I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be good and noble and all that crock.**

**And he never checked on me. Or apologised. Not that I’d ever expect it. Considering who I am. But... Gryffindors, right? Aren’t they supposed to have that annoying, unwavering moral compass?**

**Perhaps just not when it comes to Draco Malfoy, then.**

‘Fuck,’ Harry muttered under his breath. It was all true. He’d attacked Draco, gotten detention with Snape, missed Quidditch, and kissed Ginny. All in 24 hours. He’d never even considered … He’d never thought to … 

He’d certainly never have thought Draco would care if he apologised or not. 

Nor care about him and Ginny. 

But just imagining it now … putting himself in Draco’s shoes … 

Well, unlikely as it seems, if, say, when he was really into Cho Chang in 4th year—if she'd nearly killed Harry somehow, and then, the next day, not even checked in on him … If she hadn’t even apologised, and then gone and, say, gotten together with Cedric within 24 hours of the near-murdering … 

Fuck. 

‘Everything alright?’ Neville asked. 

He’d startled Harry. Harry had almost forgotten where he was. ‘Fine,’ he answered, jaw muscles twitching. 

Neville hummed acknowledgment and went back to his novel. 

Harry looked back down at the diary in his lap, and decided to tuck away those thoughts for later, though he felt a pit in his stomach. Something like guilt. He kept reading. 

Draco was just as miserable at 17 as he was at 16, it seemed. 

**I’ve been wrong. I’ve been so wrong.**

**Everything father taught me has been wrong.**

**The Dark Lord isn’t going to make a better world for wizards.**

**He’s... he’s evil. I can’t even... I can’t even describe...**

**I was wrong. And I’m terrified he’ll kill mother.**

**I need Harry to win. He must...**

Harry felt sick, reading some of the things Draco had to witness. Torturing, murder—It was horrifying. He skimmed over it. He didn’t need to know every detail ... 

_It’s all over now _, he had to remind himself. The war had been won so long ago.__

__**He did it.** _ _

__**Voldemort is dead.** _ _

__**Harry Potter is alive.** _ _

__**So alive.** _ _

__**I owe him everything, I wouldn’t be able to repay him in one lifetime for it all.** _ _

__**It’s over. Merlin it’s over.** _ _

__**It’s over.** _ _

__**Fuck I love him.** _ _

__**I love him and he’s alive.** _ _

__**And that’s enough. That’s everything.** _ _

__Harry rubbed his face again._ _

__‘Anything interesting?’ Neville asked again._ _

__Harry groaned. ‘You were right, Neville. You were right about all this,’ he said miserably, waving his hand around as if every odd gift were arranged in a display around him. ‘How can he be … trying to _woo_ me?’ _ _

__‘Ah.’_ _

__‘He’s written that he loves me. How could he _love me_?’ _ _

__Neville sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and looked pained. His expression softened a fraction, and he lifted a shoulder. ‘You’re very loveable?’_ _

__‘Egh! But this is _Draco Malfoy_!’ _ _

__Neville hummed in agreement. ‘We can’t help who we love, I suppose.’_ _

__‘Is he even capable of love?’ Harry blurted._ _

__Neville shot Harry a look that said: you can do better. ‘Of course he is. He’s human, isn’t he?’_ _

__‘But you remember …' Harry slouched in his seat, casting his gaze upwards to the ceiling of the train._ _

__‘I remember a boy who was taught a lot of wrong things by the people closest to him.’ Neville sighed._ _

__‘But how could he write he loves me, when he treated me horribly in school?’ Harry asked to the ceiling._ _

__‘People are allowed to be contradictory. I think you can see how he’d have his reasons for hiding his true self?’_ _

__Harry exhaled._ _

__Neville made a thoughtful hum. ‘This _is_ interesting.’ _ _

__‘Neville …' Harry uttered, exasperated._ _

__‘You know what? I think I’m rooting for him.’_ _

__Harry groaned and rubbed his eyes._ _

__And then came a knock on the compartment door. Harry eyed Neville, pleading with him silently. He couldn’t handle anything right now. He could barely handle _Neville_ at the moment, with his sodding romantic ideas. _ _

__Neville chuckled under his breath, and got up to open it._ _

__‘Hello Professor Longbottom!’_ _

___Lila_. Fuck. He had promised he’d tell her the truth, if he’d discovered it. _ _

__‘Hello Ms Bailey, what can I do for you?’_ _

__‘I—er—was hoping to speak with Professor Ha—Potter, that is. About his gifts.’_ _

__‘I’m afraid Professor Potter is not available at the moment. He’s … sleeping.’_ _

__Ah, Neville. Bless him. Harry stood up anyway, and peeked his head over Neville’s shoulder. ‘Hi, Lila.’ She stood there, with her throng of second-year friends behind her. He looked around at them all. ‘Hi all.’_ _

__‘Professor—’ Lila began._ _

__Harry nodded. ‘I know why you’re here. And, yes, I’ve figured out the identity of the gift-giver.’ That information was met with a variety of inhales and one squeak from his audience. ‘It was someone I used to go to Hogwarts with.’_ _

__‘A girl?’ Brit asked hopefully._ _

__Harry shook his head._ _

__‘A bloke,’ Lila chimed in, with a knowing smile on her face. ‘Are you going to write him back?’_ _

__Oh Merlin, would he? Harry doubted it at this point. ‘I’m not sure.’_ _

__‘Oh but you must!’ Tejal insisted, her eyes wide._ _

__‘Must I?’ Harry asked, half-amused, half-already-tired-of-this-conversation._ _

__‘Yes!’ she replied. ‘He put in so much effort. You must at least thank him! Perhaps even ...’ She raked her eyes over the train floor as she thought. Then, her gaze snapped up to Harry’s face. ‘Buy him dinner! It’s only polite.’_ _

__Harry pressed his lips together. Polite, huh? Sure, if it were anybody _but_ Draco Malfoy, perhaps he would. The problem was that it was, in fact, him. And Harry didn’t know what to do. ‘I’ll … think about it. I promise.’ He shot them all a smile. ‘I hope you all have great summers, girls, and I’ll see you in the autumn.’ And with that, he retreated back into the compartment. _ _

__He heard a few sounds of protest, before Neville shut the door. The man exhaled hard, but, thankfully, did not comment further—leaving Harry to his thoughts._ _

____

~~~

When Harry returned to cold and dreary Grimmauld Place, he slumped down onto his couch and opened up the diary again.

He was surprised to find that he’d already read the last entry. Where was the rest? What had happened _after_ the war? How had Draco felt at his trial, how had he felt when Harry rejected his handshake? How had he felt when his letters came back, unopened? 

He just stared at the words “Fuck I love him. I love him and he’s alive” for a while, trying to absorb them. Trying to rectify his memories of this person, with the person on the page. 

It was dinner with Hermione and Ron at their house, that evening. Harry had been excited to kick off his summer holiday with them, and see the kids. And drink wine into the small hours of the night. 

But now he felt drained … and off-balance. He wasn’t sure he had the energy for late night talks. 

He’d spent woefully too little time with them throughout the year, though, so he had to force himself. For too long they’d only had the odd weekends or the odd Sunday dinner at the Burrow where it’s too crowded to have a meaningful two-on-one chat for very long. 

He owed them a proper chat.

~~

After a nice spaghetti dinner, and after Rosie and Hugo had been put to bed, they all settled down in the living room for a drink.

‘Did you ever figure out who sent you those things?’ Hermione asked, before taking a sip of wine, and peering at him over the rim of the glass. 

‘Mm! Mm!’ Ron managed, through a mouthful of wine, waving a hand about. 

Harry almost considered _not_ telling them about Draco, since it didn’t matter. Not really. 

It was, after all, a curiosity in the end, so it may be interesting to hear what his friends thought. And they’d been far too invested in this mystery over the school year—just as Neville had been, and his students too. 

‘Yes, I did,’ he began, slowly. 

Ron shifted forward in his seat, his eyes were wide with excitement. ‘Oh yeah? Before you tell us, what were all the gifts again?’ 

As if this were some proper mystery, a riddle his friends thought they could compete to solve. 

Harry recapped: ‘A potted African violet, Kenyan chocolates, a toy Hungarian Horntail, a music c.d., a book of poems, and then, lastly, a diary.’ 

‘A diary! You didn’t tell us about that one, Harry,’ said Hermione. 

‘Well, I only just received it earlier today.’ 

‘Did you bring it with you?’ she asked, sitting up straighter in her chair, looking around to see if there were just a diary laying around, perhaps near his shoes. 

‘No …’ They didn’t need to see it. He didn’t _want_ them to see it. It was Draco’s childhood—it was private. ‘I left it at home.’ 

Both of his friends frowned. 

‘Well go on, then,’ urged Ron, momentarily forgetting his dismay at Harry neglecting to bring along the missing clue. ‘Tell us about the diary.’ 

Harry sighed and rubbed at his temple. ‘It had another silly cryptic note, this time taped on the front.’ 

‘What did it say?’ Hermione asked, eyes wide. 

‘I don’t remember.’ 

She frowned, disappointed in his inability to memorise every little detail. 

‘But it said something about the contents being how they really felt.’ 

Hermione and Ron looked very interested in that. 

‘How about I just cut to the chase and tell you who’s diary it was?’ Harry asked. 

His friends exchanged a hesitant look with each other. 

‘One last chance to guess?’ Ron asked his wife. 

She nodded curtly in return. They turned back to Harry with determined looks on their faces. 

‘Romilda Vane,’ said Hermione confidently. 

‘Oliver Wood,’ said Ron a beat later. 

Harry choked out a laugh. ‘Wrong, both of you.’ 

‘Ergh!’ said Ron, making a fist. 

Hermione sighed. ‘We’ve failed.’ 

‘I’m going to tell you now,’ Harry said, looking back and forth at his friend’s faces. 

‘Alright, tell us already!’ Ron exclaimed. 

‘The person who sent those gifts … is …' 

‘Harry!’ 

‘It’s Draco Malfoy.’ 

Ron and Hermione didn’t react, their faces were blank, like they’d been struck dumb. 

‘Huh,’ said Ron, thoughtfully, after a moment. 

Hermione hummed her agreement. ‘Malfoy. Yeah, I see it now.’ 

‘You do?’ Harry asked. He’d expected a little more of a reaction … a laugh, perhaps. Or a look of disgust. _Something._

‘Yeah. He was always so desperate for Harry’s attention,’ Ron said to Hermione. 

She nodded. ‘And he wouldn’t give Harry away to Voldemort, even though it would’ve been very good for his family.’ 

‘Oh yeah, when he said he couldn’t be sure.’ 

‘Exactly.’ 

‘Guys …' Harry interjected. ‘He said he loves me.’ 

Hermione’s face softened. ‘Does he?’ 

Ron grinned. ‘Of course he does, he’d be mad not to.’ 

‘Have you both completely forgotten—’ 

Hermione smiled. ‘It’s not that, Harry, not about forgetting. It’s been a long time, sure. But it’s more like, I can understand him better now. And I can forgive him.’ 

‘But … even excusing his behaviour in the war. Wasn’t he, well, always a snobbish stuck up git anyhow? He called Hermione the m-word, he made badges just to ridicule me.’ 

Ron shrugged. ‘Sure, and I left you and Hermione alone in the Forest of Dean. We’ve all done things we’d rather not be remembered for.’ 

‘But this was more than _one thing_ —’ 

‘Harry, you’re talking like you’re troubled about this,’ Hermione interjected. ‘Draco didn’t ask anything from you, did he? Sounds like he just wanted to tell you how he felt. You don’t have to do anything with that information.’ 

He didn’t? She had a point. So why was he bothered by all this? He could just accept Draco had loved him in school, and then, go on with his life. Just … go on knowing that somewhere out there … was a Draco Malfoy who … loved him …

~~

In the coming days, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about Draco Malfoy. He couldn’t stop playing the words “Fuck I love him. I love him and he’s alive.” over and over in his thoughts. Or shamefully thinking about Sectumsempra and kissing Ginny, without a second thought. Or about a skinny, gaunt-looking boy, with tears spilling from his eyes as he gripped the edge of a sink in a bathroom. Or about those unopened letters after the war—wondering what they might have said.

He was going half-mad, going over it all in his mind. 

And he had so many questions ... 

Why was Draco Malfoy in _Afghanistan_? 

Why _now_? Why choose to tell him all this … _now_? They were nearly in their 30s, they hadn’t seen each other in over a decade. Did Draco really _still_ love him? Or had he just wanted Harry to know that he _used_ to love him? (And if so … _why_?) 

Harry couldn’t concentrate on anything else … he couldn’t garden, he couldn’t tidy up around the house, he couldn’t even watch a show on the telly without his thoughts straying to Draco bloody Malfoy. 

He was going to need to do something about it. 

Truthfully, it was answers that he wanted. Needed. Answers that only Draco himself could provide. 

So, he went to Luna. 

She opened the door of her cottage with a smile. Evidently not surprised at all to see him. ‘Hello, Harry.’ 

‘Luna.’ He wrapped her up in a warm hug. He’d missed her. She looked the same as ever—long blond hair in a messy plait, fiddlehead earrings, and a summery purple cotton dress. 

They pulled apart, and Luna reached a hand up to his cheek. ‘Something’s bothering you.’ 

He exhaled. Luna had always been so perceptive when it came to him. When it came to most things, probably. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. 

‘Well, come inside and we will have a chat.’ 

‘Thank you.’ 

She led him into her sitting room—a bright room full of various plants and mismatched antique furniture. ‘Would you like a tea, Harry?’ she asked, as they both settled down onto her pistachio-green couch. 

‘No. Thanks, I’m fine.’ 

She nodded, and patiently waited for him to share what he’d come to say. 

‘Draco Malfoy has been writing me … well, sending me gifts in the post.’ 

Luna’s expression did not change, she wore the same small smile on her face. 

Harry took a deep breath. ‘He’s told me that he loved me, back in school.’ 

She nodded. 

‘You _knew_?’ 

‘Harry … he couldn’t keep his eyes off you,’ she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

He just blinked at her, trying to absorb that. Surely, Draco hadn’t looked at him _that much_. He gave his head a little shake, as if to clear it. ‘Well … what I came to ask was … are you still friends with him?’ 

Luna’s smile grew. ‘Yes.’ 

Harry felt a surge of relief, mixed with something darker. Anxiety, perhaps. 

‘We write to each other from time to time.’ 

Harry couldn’t help blurting out a string of questions. ‘Where is he? Why is he in the Middle East? What is he _doing_?’ 

Luna smiled at him very patiently. ‘He works for Médecins Sans Frontières.’ 

‘I’m sorry, what?’ 

‘Draco is a Muggle Healer, Harry. He went to Muggle medical school after Hogwarts.’ 

‘He’s a _doctor_?’ That had to be the _last_ thing he’d ever expect. International jewellery thief would be higher up on the list. 

‘Yes, I believe that’s the word they use,’ she said calmly. ‘He travels the world to give care where it is most needed, like countries at war … or countries that have experienced natural disasters …' 

Harry was absolutely flabbergasted. This was all … like a dream. It didn’t seem real. 

‘Does that answer your questions, Harry?’ she asked, with a friendly pat to his arm. 

‘Yes,’ he replied, staring off at the wall behind Luna’s head, unseeing. He blinked. ‘No. I mean … do you know where he is now? Do you have his address so I can write to him?’ 

‘Mm, MSF recently resumed programmes in Afghanistan. He’s working at a hospital there.’ 

‘Do you know where exactly, Luna?’ he asked again. He needed to know. 

‘Mm, yes. I have his return address on an envelope here someplace.’ 

__

~~

Harry went home, clutching the empty envelope to his chest, and collapsed onto the couch. Only then did he inspect it fully. He felt a pang in his chest, as he read Luna’s name and address in that now-familiar hand-writing. The writing of his gift-giver. He turned the envelope over, and there it was … the name “Dr Draco Malfoy”, with an Afghan address underneath.

It was real. He knew it had been … just, it hadn’t quite _felt_ real, and the envelope truly proved it was. 

What would he write to Draco, though? Something like: 

**Hey,**

**I got your gifts. Thanks.**

**Do you actually love me, or**

?? 

That’d be awful to write. 

Harry sighed, and rubbed at his tired eyes. He’d always been rubbish at writing letters. 

But he still needed answers … Maybe—just maybe—he could see Draco in person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ! ❤️


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn’t easy to secure a Portkey for Lashkar-Gah, Afghanistan. He’d had to push his name around, call in some old favours at the Ministry. 

Harry landed in front of a low building; it wasn’t like any other hospital he’d seen. In large red letters over the entrance, it read: EMERGENCY SURGICAL CENTER FOR CIVILIAN WAR VICTIMS_LASHKARGAH. 

Just as he stepped closer, the sound of fast-approaching footsteps prompted him to turn around. Two men were there, wheeling a gurney on the pavement towards the entrance. As they passed him, Harry caught a glimpse of what they were pushing—or should he say _who_. It was a woman, with a bloodstained face. 

Oh Merlin. He didn’t think—he never _thinks_ things through. 

One thing seemed clear: he shouldn’t be there. 

But Harry had come that far, and he _was_ there, so … 

So he trailed after the gurney, to go in. 

The walls inside were painted white, and a table was set near the entrance. Desks and shelves overflowing with papers lined the walls. There was a whiteboard with hand-written patient notes on one wall. 

The gurney was nowhere to be seen; it must’ve been taken through the far doors. 

The only occupant of the room—a heavy-set, bearded man—rose from the table. ‘And you are?’ 

Harry tried to smile. He knew he must look very, very out of place in his corduroy trousers and navy blazer. Professor clothes, Ron called them. ‘Harry Potter … Er, I was looking to see Draco Malfoy?’ 

‘Dr Malfoy is in surgery.’ 

‘Ah. Um … can I wait for him?’ 

The man nodded towards the entrance, where Harry had just come in from. ‘You can wait outside.’ He sat back down, and went back to sorting through some papers. 

‘Oh. Okay. And you’ll tell him I’m here? Harry Potter?’ 

‘I will tell him,’ the man said without looking up. 

‘Thank you,’ Harry said, trying not to sound as wary as he felt. 

So he went back outside, in the 30 degree heat, in the blazing sunshine, and stood with his back against the white wall. There were a few trees in front of him, but not much else to look at. A perimeter wall seemed to wrap around hospital property. 

He took off his blazer and folded it over his arm. And waited. Then, he rolled up his shirt-sleeves. 

Then, he remembered he was a wizard and stealthily cast a cooling charm on himself. 

Time ticked by, and he got tired of standing. 

Eventually he sat down, with his back against the wall. 

He might’ve dozed off a bit, in the sunshine. 

‘Holy hell it is you,’ quipped someone from the direction of the front door. ’Jesus.’ 

Harry’s eyes snapped open, and he scrambled up to face the speaker. Harry took in Draco’s appearance fast: tired, short hair, wearing a _t-shirt_. In an instance, Harry forgot everything he was going to say—his mind went blank. 

Draco Malfoy was in front of him at last. He seemed older, but, in a good way … like: mature. Like … a proper man, now. 

‘ _Why_ are you here?’ 

Harry blinked at him. ‘You …' Harry furrowed his brow. He hadn’t exactly expected a warm welcome. But he thought Draco would be a little softer on him, on account of his confession and all those nice gifts. He started to doubt himself in the moment—Draco _had_ sent him those things, right? It wouldn’t be, say, his mum sending him weird gifts and an old diary … Okay, he was definitely just anxious. ‘You sent me …' Merlin, what was _wrong_ with him? Didn’t he remember full sentences? 

Draco rolled his eyes. ‘You weren’t supposed to _come to fucking Afghanistan_. Are you completely insane? Haven’t you paid attention to the Muggle news at all in the last ten years?’ Draco shook his head. ‘No, of course you haven’t. You haven’t changed at all, then. Always running headfirst into things, paying no mind to the consequences.’ 

Well, shit. ‘That’s not fair …' 

‘Isn’t it? Alright, come on, I have rounds in fifteen minutes. You can sit in my office.’ 

Feeling like a scolded puppy following his master, Harry trailed in after Draco, through the room he’d entered earlier as Draco mumbled to himself. Things like: Jesus, fuck, and _unbelievable_. He had a noticeable limp in his right leg. Harry eyed it curiously as they stepped through a side hallway and into a small office. 

Draco sunk into the chair behind his desk. It was riddled with papers and funny devices Harry didn’t recognise. There was even a bulky laptop. The walls were covered in more papers—notes and medical diagrams. 

Harry sat in the wooden chair on the other side of the desk, and watched as Draco rubbed his forehead, staring back at Harry like he was an Erumpent in an opera house. 

‘Do you have a Portkey out of here?’ Draco finally asked, his expression betraying nothing. 

‘Yes,’ Harry licked his bottom lip. ‘It’s set for tomorrow, same time.’ 

Draco sighed. ‘Do you have a place to stay for the night?’ 

‘Er …' He’d expected to, what, wing it? Every place on earth had hotels somewhere, didn’t they? 

‘Of course not. Did you even pack anything?’ Draco asked with a raised eyebrow. 

‘No,’ Harry said, exhaling. Yes, he was an idiot. That much was very apparent. 

‘Right. So you were just going to come here, and, what? Throw together a plan on the fly?’ 

Harry sighed. ‘That about covers it, yeah.’ He slumped in the chair, wishing he could slide off of it onto the floor, and then have the floor swallow him up whole. 

Draco swiped a hand through his short hair. ‘Alright. Stay here until I’m off. Then, I’ll take you to my place.’ 

‘Okay.’ He felt like one of his students—a first-year, most likely. Being admonished for breaking school rules. Well, this was a humbling experience. 

Draco stood up, and made to leave for the door—but hesitated. ‘Did you even get vaccinated for this little trip of yours?’ 

‘Ah … no?’ 

‘Of course not. If you’re responsible for bringing a Polio epidemic back to Britain, that’s on you, Potter.’ 

‘Right, noted.’ Harry sighed again. He didn’t know what he’d expected out of this, but it certainly wasn’t to feel like the world’s biggest fool in front of Draco Malfoy. 

Draco shot him a stern look, and left the room without anything further. 

Harry slumped over, resting his forehead against the edge of Draco’s desk. 

This Draco Malfoy certainly did not love him. Harry had been so stupid to come here. Draco had probably sent him those things to tease him, or trick him, or drive him mad. And it’d worked.

~~

Harry had wound himself up into a real mood by the time Draco returned to the office.

He stood in the doorway, regarding Harry, and asked, ‘What’s gotten in to you?’ 

‘Nothing.’ Harry clenched his jaw, wishing he could leave and never have to see Draco again. 

Draco sighed, and then closed the door behind him, shutting them both into his small office. ‘Well, my shift is done, let’s go. I’ll apparate us straight into my place. I don’t want to have to explain you to anyone.’ 

‘Fine,’ he said, as he stood up. 

Draco held his arm out, intending for Harry to grab onto it. However, his arm was quite bare in that t-shirt with the “MSF” logo, so Harry hesitated. Impatiently, Draco mumbled something, and then grabbed Harry’s arm instead. 

There was that familiar feeling of being sucked through a small tube, and then Harry found himself in a simple room with brown curtained windows on one end, and a white double bed in the center. There was a desk, with a laptop on it, and an assortment of papers, just like Draco’s desk at the hospital. In the corner was a small television, and a dresser. 

A soft rumbling sound filled the room—air conditioning, perhaps? It was a pleasant temperature and the room smelt a bit floral—it was … nice. Small, but nice. 

Draco dropped Harry’s arm, and ran his hand over the back of his head instead. ‘I should go back, get my car, and drive over. I won’t be too long. Make yourself comfortable … watch T.V. if you like.’ 

Draco had a car? This was all so surreal, and for some reason … Draco in a Muggle car nearly did Harry in. ‘Okay,’ he managed to say. 

‘And there’re drinks and a bit of food in the mini fridge,’ Draco said, nodding toward a small black object on the other end of the room. ‘Help yourself.’ 

‘Okay,’ Harry said, again. 

Draco exhaled slowly out of his nose, then, without warning, he disappeared with a crack. 

Harry stood there for a moment, not quite knowing what to do with himself. He was hungry and thirsty though, and, could use a piss. He walked the length of the room, to a short hallway on the far side that led to a door with a deadbolt—must be the entrance, then. There was also a door to his left he could push open—revealing the loo as he did. So, Harry used it, and was grateful that Draco hadn’t been around to have to ask him where it was or for permission or some other awkwardness. 

After he was finished, he opened up that mini fridge. He didn’t recognise any of the drinks—they had that loopy middle eastern writing on them. (He didn’t know if Afghans had their own language, or, would it be Arabic? He really should’ve done at least a little research before dropping everything to come to a country 5,000 kilometres away). 

One of the bottles very clearly had a photo of a mango on it, so he pulled that one out to try. On top of the fridge were some packaged items—probably crisps and crackers and the like. Harry picked up a package of something that’d been already opened, and took them over to the desk to sit, pushing some papers aside so he could set his things down. 

He screwed the cap off the bottle first, and took a long drink. It was sweet, bubbly, and, yeah, was definitely mango—the picture hadn’t lied. It was a pretty good drink, really. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever had a mango drink before. He’d only just tried mangos—the fruit—a couple years earlier. And ever since, he’s always been sure to visit the Indian grocer near his house to pick some up during the summers. 

Harry opened up the package and looked inside. Oh. The things inside were a bit weird looking. Sort of like lumpy potato croquettes, or perhaps some kind of dried Afghan bug. He gave the inside a sniff. It smelled sweet and a bit floral. Shrugging to himself, Harry dipped a hand in and pulled one out. It was hard in his hand. He popped it into his mouth and bit down—and Merlin, was it _nice_. Honey-sweet and chewy, just a little bit tart. 

Somewhere along the line, Harry’s mood had improved. Perhaps he’d just needed a good dose of sugar. He didn’t feel nearly as grumpy as he had in Draco’s office. 

The key rattled in the door, and Harry felt himself tense up a bit. 

The door opened, and Harry rose to his feet. 

Draco laughed breathily, closing the door behind himself, and locking it. ‘You don’t need to stand, it’s just me.’ 

_Just him_. 

Draco turned to look at Harry, seeing him there—still standing, holding the package of mystery food. 

Harry swallowed the last bit of what was in his mouth, staring back at Draco. ‘This is weird, isn’t it?’ 

Draco smiled, leaning back against the door. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all day.’ 

‘I’m sorry, yes, I shouldn’t have just …' He winced. ‘ _Popped_ over to Afghanistan.’ 

‘No, you shouldn’t’ve.’ Draco sounded amused, this time. He had a small smile on his lips. The smile dropped in an instant, as his expression turned curious, and ... uncertain. ‘Why did you?’ 

Why did he, indeed? Well the simple answer was what he went with, ‘I have questions to ask you.’ 

‘Ah. Well … can they wait until after I’ve showered?’ 

‘Yeah, of course.’ 

Draco nodded, and stepped into the room to rummage around in his dresser. Harry watched, feeling uncertain, himself. 

‘What are these?’ Harry blurted. 

Draco turned to look at Harry over his shoulder, his eyes dropping to the package in Harry’s hand. ‘Dried white mulberries.’ 

‘Oh. They're good … I … like them.’ Merlin, he was awkward. 

Nodding, Draco turned back around to his dresser drawer. ‘Take them back to London, then.’ 

It was a reminder that Draco had been giving him things all year. Giving him things that were personal—that Draco thought Harry might like. And he just gave Harry his mulberries like it wasn’t a big deal. When it _was_ —it was a big deal. 

Because the simple gesture was _kind_. 

Draco took his pile of fresh clothing and a towel into the bathroom, before Harry could even think to express thanks. 

The spray of the shower started, and Harry sank back down to the desk chair. 

He ate a few more berries, with his mind a jumbling mess. 

The spray of the shower stopped, and Harry heard some shuffling in there, some things being moved around. 

Soon they’d get to talk. 

The door to the loo opened, and Draco stepped out—fully dressed in black tailored slacks, a sky blue-coloured button-down, and … striped socks. He looked dressed up (minus the socked feet). He looked … nice. 

Draco eyed him warily. ‘I should get us some supper.’ 

Oh. Okay. Another delay in their talk, then. Harry was almost relieved … He nodded. ‘Alright.’ 

Draco seemed to hesitate. ‘Is there anything you’re allergic to? Or anything you won't eat?’ 

‘I don’t really like Brussels sprouts.’ 

The edge of Draco’s mouth quirked up. ‘I see. I’ll just be a moment, then.’ 

Harry watched him toe on his shoes, grab his keys, and leave again. It was almost as if he were avoiding their inevitable conversation. Harry was a bit hungry for something other than dried berries though, he supposed. 

Waiting for Draco again, then. He flipped on the television, but it was all in the Afghan language, so he switched it off again. Instead, he let his eyes drift around the room, and tried to imagine Draco coming home there every day. Tired from a long shift … sitting in the very chair Harry was in, scribbling notes on various diseases or types of injuries. Or, watching Afghan television. Did Draco speak the language? Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he did. Draco seemed clever enough to learn other languages. 

Harry looked at the bed, imagining Draco climbing into it every night, and then climbing out of it every morning. Did he dream? Did he have nightmares? Had he ever thought of Harry in this room? 

Then, the key turned in the lock, bringing Harry out of his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ❤️


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I listened to "Mothership" by Aurora all throughout writing this chapter. (Aurora is the best)

Draco stepped inside, toeing off his shoes and bringing over a box of something that already smelled delicious. 

‘Sorry,’ Draco mumbled. ‘It’s a mess.’ He took his wand from his pocket and waved it around. The papers on the desk rearranged themselves into a neat pile. 

It was ridiculous for Draco to apologise … it wasn’t as if Harry’s visit was planned. 

Draco placed the box on the desk, and went over near his mini fridge area to fumble around for something—forks and two small plates, Harry realised, as he walked back over with them in hand. He set them on top of the box, and then transfigured another chair from a scrap piece of paper on the desk. It came out all white with blurry scribbled writing on it. 

Then, Draco sat down beside Harry, and Harry couldn’t help but watch him. To watch the way he moved as he set the plates and forks aside and opened up the box. Seeing the way he set his mouth into a straight line. Harry remembered what Luna had said … about how Draco hadn’t kept his eyes off Harry in school. But, hadn’t the opposite been true? Seeing Draco now … just reminded Harry how much he’d watched Draco back then. At the Great Hall (with two tables between them), in classes, on the Pitch … What did _that_ mean, then? 

Draco finally met Harry’s eyes, Draco’s shined grey and stormy, and hard to read. ‘Here,’ he said, as he held up a plate with a pink faded linear design on it, and, a fork. 

Harry took them, and finally looked down at the food. Whatever it was had been beautifully arranged inside the box—a colourful mixture of golden yellow, white, fresh green, and orange-red. ‘What … is it?’ 

‘Beef and onion dumplings. It’s called mantu. The sauce is yoghurt, garlic, mint, and chickpeas.’ 

‘It smells good.’ 

‘Try some.’ 

Harry did and it was lovely. Like comfort food. He swallowed his mouthful, then said, ‘I like it.’ 

Draco nodded, and swallowed as well. ‘I’m glad.’ 

Merlin, was this strange. Harry wanted to talk to Draco, wanted to ask him everything. But between bites of delicious food was probably not the time. The silence started to feel oppressive as they ate—maybe Harry could ask something neutral, to start. 

‘How was work today?’ 

Draco’s eyebrows went up, and he finished what he was eating, before responding, ‘Fine. Well, a bit mad with you around.’ 

Harry smiled—he couldn’t help it. It _had_ been a bit mad, Portkeying directly into the entrance of a civilian war victims' hospital. His smile fell. ‘When I arrived, there was a woman being wheeled in, with blood on her face.’ 

Draco nodded. ‘She’ll be fine.’ 

‘Oh, good. I’m glad to hear it.’ He was relieved. He probably should’ve asked about her earlier. ‘It’s pretty bad here, huh? I mean … violent?’ 

Draco smiled sadly. ‘Yes. It can be. Unfortunately, not everyone is as lucky as the woman you saw today.’ 

Harry took another bite of dumpling, looking down at the desk with eyes unfocussed. Draco really was a remarkable person, he thought to himself. People had called Harry brave before, but this … this was a whole other level. ‘Why do you do it? Why did you become a Muggle doctor?’ 

Draco exhaled and slumped back in his chair, rubbing at his face with one hand. (Should Harry not have asked?) 

‘After Hogwarts, I was a bit shunned in the wizarding community, as you can imagine.’ 

It had been a heavier question than Harry had thought. Harry absorbed that information … he could imagine, yeah. And he hated it. Draco had been cleared of all charges. But people had long memories, and to some, a Death Eater was always going to be a Death Eater. Even if they’d only been a kid. 

‘I couldn’t get work, couldn’t get an apprenticeship anywhere. I looked everywhere for something, even minding a shop, but all I found were closed doors.’ 

Harry nodded solemnly, and took another bite of dumpling, allowing Draco to continue, if he wanted. 

‘So, I entered the Muggle world, and I found every door open. They didn’t know who I was, they didn’t care about the mark on my arm.’ 

Harry closed his eyes. 

‘Muggle healthcare fascinated me … and I found that I was skilled at it. So, it took many years, but I became a doctor, specialising in emergency medicine. I earned my position on my own merit, with my own hard work. My family, and my blood status had nothing to do with it. And that was immensely satisfying.’ 

Harry looked at him then, and Draco’s head was tilted down, with a small smile on his lips. 

‘I worked at St Thomas’ Hospital in London for a while, but I wanted to do big things— _bigger_ things. I wanted to see the world, and see how much I could do … how much I could help. So, I joined MSF. And I _have_ seen much of the world, and I have saved lives. It has been … difficult. But … rewarding.’ 

Harry was in awe of him. ‘But you … used to hate Muggles.’ He didn’t mean to be harsh, it was just fascinating how Draco could go from despising them ... to living among them—to _saving_ their lives. He wanted to understand. 

Draco sighed. ‘I was taught to hate them, yes. When I realised my father was wrong about Voldemort, I wondered what else he’d been wrong about. After actually meeting Muggles—and living as a Muggle—I discovered quickly how mistaken I'd been.’ He exhaled slowly, casting short glances at Harry. ‘Hating someone for not having magic, is like hating someone for not being able to play the piano. Or speak French. It’d be foolish, really.’ 

It was … inspiring. To see how far Draco had come—creating the life _he_ wanted, and unlearning all the horrible things his father had tried to instil in him. 

Draco leaned forward and forked another dumpling. ‘What about you, then?’ he asked, without looking at Harry. 

‘Me?’ 

‘Your life. Tell me about it.’ Draco took a bite of his dumpling, and leaned back in his chair, waiting. 

‘It’s fine. I teach DADA at Hogwarts, as you probably know.’ 

Draco made a noncommittal hum. 

Harry exhaled through his nose. Merlin, he felt so dull compared to Draco. ‘I have good students … I … enjoy teaching.’ He didn’t know what else he could say about it ... 

‘And your social life?’ Draco asked, taking another dumpling. 

‘Fine,’ Harry said again. ‘Neville teaches Herbology, so I get to see him most every day. Hagrid is there, and, well … most of all the old faces. I see Hermione and Ron once and a while. They’re doing well—married now, with two kids.’ 

Draco looked at Harry then, with a degree of hesitation on his face. ‘And you?’ 

‘Am I married?’ He huffed out a breathy little laugh. ‘No.’ Draco seemed to blink more rapidly at that, looking off at the far wall. ‘I’ve been single for about five years, now.’ 

Draco’s eyes snapped to his. He looked rather surprised by that news. ‘Why?’ 

Why? Well that wasn’t an easy thing to answer. Harry shrugged. ‘Ginny and I tried to make it work for a while, after Hogwarts, but, it didn’t. She’s married to a nice Muggle bloke now.’ Draco nodded, looking a bit astonished. Did he honestly expect Harry to be married to Ginny by now? ‘Well, after Ginny, I dated a bit. Nothing serious. Until Dillon.’ Draco’s eyes snapped to Harry’s face _again_ , this time with a pinkness blossoming high on his cheeks. ‘It’d been good for a while, but in the end, we wanted very different things. He wasn’t ready for anything truly serious, and who could blame him—we were still in our early twenties. But, I’ve never had a proper family … and … and that’s something I’ve always wanted,’ Harry admitted. 

Draco bit the edge of his bottom lip with an incisor. 

‘And, I suppose, there just wasn’t anyone since. Granted, I didn’t try too hard to meet anyone new. My job has been my priority lately.’ Harry peered at Draco’s face, unable to read it. ‘What about you, then?’ 

Draco took a deep breath, and released it. ‘Well … I’ve been quite busy myself, and homosexuality is illegal in most countries I visit. Including this one.’ 

‘Ah,’ Harry said, because he couldn’t think of anything better to say. 

Draco leaned forward and dropped his fork down on the desk. ‘I suppose this is the moment we address the elephant in the room?’ 

Harry blinked at Draco for a moment, feeling his pulse quickening. ‘Okay,’ he said slowly. He felt about as apprehensive as Draco probably did. ‘You sent me all those things, yeah?’ 

Draco huffed a laugh. ‘ _Yes_ , that was me.’ 

‘You know … a simple letter might’ve been a bit more straightforward.’ 

Draco laughed again, rubbing his face. (To hide it?) ‘Yes, it would’ve been. Perhaps I have a flair for the dramatic, and enjoyed it far more than I should have.’ His gaze dropped to the floor, and he bit at his bottom lip again. ‘Truthfully I think I just needed to work up the courage for that big reveal in the end.’ 

Harry leaned back in his chair, looking up at the cracked white ceiling. ‘Why’d you do it, then? Why did you send them? Why did you tell me …' _that you loved me_. 

Sighing, Draco swiped a hand over his face. ‘I’d nearly died.’ 

That certainly caught Harry’s attention. He sat up straight. 

‘I was in China, just after the massive earthquake last year. A building had taken structural damage and it fell on me—just a case of wrong place, wrong time. It came down onto me, crushing my leg pretty bad.’ Harry’s eye darted to the right leg, the one that made Draco limp as he walked. ‘I’d sustained some internal damage as well, along with an infection that spread rapidly. So, as I said, I’d nearly died. In a small rural hospital in China. Alone.’ 

Harry sucked in a breath. 

‘But … as you can see, I didn’t die in the end. And when I became conscious, all I could think was …' he sucked in a breath, steeling himself for what he was about to say. ‘All I could think … was that I’d never told you.’ 

Harry let out a shaky breath. He didn’t know what to say, what to think. He just knew that an ache had manifested itself in his chest. 

‘I could’ve easily died, and I would’ve died … with you thinking that I always hated you. Which … isn’t true.’ 

Yes, if Draco had died, Harry would’ve believed that Draco had always hated him. 

‘Doing what I do …' Draco continued, carefully. ‘Can give a startling reality check. Life is …' He shut his eyes. ‘Terribly fragile. And short. There aren’t unlimited opportunities.’ He opened his eyes. ‘I just wanted you to know the truth. It was that simple.’ He sighed. ‘And that complicated.’ 

‘You loved me,’ Harry said—it wasn’t a question. 

Draco sighed. ‘Yes.’ 

He wanted to know … he _needed_ to know. It was difficult to ask, but he had to say the words. So, in barely more than a whisper, he asked: ‘Do you still love me?’ 

Draco’s mouth twisted into a slight frown, and his eyes dropped. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, then released it—making it shine a little with saliva. ‘I suspect I always will.’ 

Oh. 

Oh, Merlin. 

Draco continued, ‘For the record, I never wanted to tell you any of this. I never thought I’d see you again. I had only wanted to give you the diary so you’d know the truth, and then … I’d move on.’ 

Harry was quiet for a moment. It’d been a lot to take in. ‘Thank you,’ he said finally. ‘I’m glad you told me everything.’ 

Draco huffed a laugh, as if he wasn’t sure he should believe him. ‘Are you?’ 

‘Yes.’ He hadn’t even had to think about it. 

Draco smiled softly. 

Well … that’d been … _big_. 

Harry sucked in a deep breath. ‘What did your letters say? The ones I’d sent back?’ 

Draco groaned. ‘Harry …' 

‘Sorry, maybe I’ve asked enough questions for one day.’ 

He exhaled, slow. ‘No, you’re here now. Might as well lay it all out.’ He leaned over, and rubbed at his forehead. ‘I only wanted to talk. To apologise for every shitty thing I’d ever said and done. That’s all.’ 

‘Oh.’ He rubbed absently at his leg with his knuckles. ‘I should’ve opened them, I should’ve read—’ 

‘No, you didn’t need to. It’s fine.’ 

‘I was really very broken, then. I had to see a Mind Healer for a few years.’ 

Draco nodded. ‘You don’t have to explain. You didn’t owe me anything.’ 

But what if he had opened them? What if they could’ve become friends—what if Harry could've got to know Draco sooner? ‘I wish I had.’ 

Draco didn’t say anything to that. 

‘Also I feel awful about … about 6th year, about the bathroom. And Ginny the next day …' 

Draco shut his eyes. ‘You don’t need to say anything.’ 

‘It’s just … I didn’t even think you’d want an apology then.’ 

Draco just exhaled slowly. 

‘I _am_ sorry. I was so stupid, and brash, then. I just didn’t think things through …' 

Draco’s mouth turned up into a small smile, then. ‘Just like today?’ 

Harry slumped in his chair, huffing a laugh. ‘Okay, you’ve a point. I was stupid and brash today. Usually I’m a bit better. I think.’ 

Draco looked at him, properly now, and smiled. Harry felt a smile grow on his own face. And he just wanted to … _something_. To say something more or do something … Draco had bared his very heart to Harry. And Harry wanted to give something back. 

‘Actually … yes, I was stupid and brash today. And you know … I’m not really sorry about that—it felt good.’ Realisation was beginning to dawn on him. ‘I’ve been boring, lately.’ Draco furrowed his brow at that. ‘Like a knife left unused in a drawer for too long—I've gotten dull. I’m _comfortable_ in my life … but I don’t think it’s been in a good way. I don’t take risks, I just go through each day the same way. I teach the same structured lessons and I chat with Neville about plants, and Ron and Hermione about their kids … because I don’t really _do_ anything. And I think I’ve been lonely, and bitter about it … without even realising it.’ Harry rubbed his forehead, not daring to meet Draco’s eyes yet. ‘What I’m trying to say is … I’m glad I was stupid and risky and daring today … it reminded me of who I am—or who I used to be.’ 

Harry dared to look at Draco then, and the man just looked back at him with bright eyes and a soft smile. 

Harry sucked in a breath. He’d admitted a lot, there. But, so had Draco before that. He managed a smile back. ‘I liked what you sent, you know? Mail from you was the most interesting part of my year.’ 

‘Did you?’ Draco asked softly, still smiling a little, watching Harry’s face. ‘Is that so?’ 

‘Yeah. The Violet is still alive. It still has flowers.’ 

The smile widened, and eyes crinkled in the corners. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ 

‘The chocolates were eaten in a day.’ 

Draco exhaled a laugh. 

‘Why were you in Hungary?’ It had been the one place that had stuck out compared with the others. 

‘Vacation,’ he answered with a smile. 

‘What were the notes, the ones you sent with every gift?’ 

‘Oh … just lyrics to an Annie Lennox song. It's called “Why”. The words had seemed fitting, at the time. I'd listened to that album a lot when I was recovering, and that song in particular reminded me of—well—you and me.' Draco shot him a somewhat apologetic smile. 'You didn’t listen to the c.d.?’ 

‘Well, no. Muggle technology doesn’t work at Hogwarts.’ 

‘Ah, that’s right.’ 

They seemed to have fallen into a silence again. And still, Harry wanted to say more, wanted to give Draco something more. 

‘Are you all out of questions?’ Draco asked, sounding amused, perhaps even … fond. 

Was he out of questions? Maybe. He didn’t know. Harry looked around the room, remembering that more existed in the world besides Draco, him, and two chairs—one normal wooden chair, the other made out of paper. He turned back to Draco, who was watching him with an open, bare expression. Draco Malfoy was handsome—this was irrefutable fact. He’d always been, Harry had always noticed. Same with the man’s intelligence. Harry knew he’d been second to Hermione, only—and she had superhuman cleverness. What he hadn’t noticed, years ago, was that Draco was a fascinating person. A good person. And so much more than he knew. 

‘I want this to continue, past today.’ 

Draco’s lips parted slightly, but he didn’t say anything. 

‘I want to know everything about you.’ It was true, Merlin, it was true. 

Draco’s mouth snapped closed, and the muscles in his jaw tensed. 

‘You’re interesting.’ 

‘Harry—’ It sounded almost like a warning. 

‘We could see each other … We could keep talking. Like this.’ 

‘Harry … you work full-time at Hogwarts. I work … in places like this. In very dangerous places, at times. For months on end. So, what, we can write letters that take weeks to be received? That’d be it, at best.’ 

He didn’t understand. Wasn’t this all—ultimately—for a purpose? Yes, Draco had explicitly said he only wanted to get his confession off his chest, and … move on. But he’d also said he loved Harry, and suspected he always would. And, what, Draco would expect Harry to leave it at that? To _walk away_ after _that_? To slip back into his quiet life, knowing that handsome, brilliant, fascinating, and single Draco Malfoy was out there loving him? And he was supposed to just live with that? He was supposed to let him go, without trying? (Trying for _what_ , though?) 

‘I think we should date,’ Harry countered. Courage, risk … fuck, it felt good to practice those things again. 

That blush returned … the one high up on Draco’s cheeks. ‘That’s …' Draco licked his lip. ‘Awfully fast of you to say.’ 

‘Yeah and it’s awfully fast of you to confess your love before we’ve had a single date.’ 

That got him. Draco blinked at Harry, bewildered. After a beat, he said, slowly, ‘But our jobs …' 

‘Don’t you get any time off?’ 

Draco licked his lip again—a nervous gesture? ‘I … do. In six weeks.' 

‘Will you go on a date with me, then, in six weeks?’ 

Draco appeared to be in awe, staring wide-eyed at Harry. He took a deep breath, and seemed to come back into himself. ‘Harry, this has all been … _a lot_ —for both of us—very quickly. If you still want to go on a date with me, in six weeks, after you’ve thought about it—very carefully—then, I’ll go on one with you. I’ll … write you when I’m in London.’ 

Okay. That was something, at least. Draco was right … this was all very fast and kind of alarming. But the idea of stepping back into his quiet life, as if nothing had happened, would be so much harder to bear. 

‘It’s a deal,’ Harry said. 

Draco took another deep breath and leaned back. ‘Well, this has been …’ 

Harry smiled. ‘Interesting, to say the least.’ 

Draco nodded. ‘Enlightening … You know, before today I thought you were straight.’ 

Harry laughed. ‘Afraid not.’ 

‘Huh.’ 

‘You thought it was a lost cause, then? That you were doomed for a life of unrequited love?’ 

Draco snorted. ‘Now that’s a bit dramatic. But, yes.’ 

Their eyes met, and there was something there, between them. A feeling of hope, perhaps ... of possibility—where hope and possibility had never existed before. 

‘I should … get some sleep,’ Draco said slowly, as if he regretted it. 

‘Oh, yeah. Of course. It must’ve been a long day.’ 

They looked at each other for a beat, unsure of what to do. 

‘I should transfigure a bed for me to sleep in,’ Draco said. 

‘Oh! No. _I’m_ the one that barged in, uninvited. You should have your bed, I’ll transfigure something.’ 

‘Well … alright.’ Draco rubbed at his forehead, and looked around. ‘There isn’t much room in here, maybe if I move the bed a little closer to the wall …' 

They both got up, awkwardly moving through the room, all-too aware of each other now, in a way they hadn’t been earlier. 

Draco magicked his bed over to the side—as much as he could (which wasn’t altogether that much). Harry tried to transfigure his empty mango drink bottle into a mattress, but he wasn’t getting the sizing right … either too small to fit his body size, or too big to fit the small space. The more Harry tried, the lumpier the mattress seemed to get. 

‘Let me,’ Draco interjected, taking out his own wand to try. 

He was able to fit the mattress snug to the allotted space … but the mattress had the hardness of plastic, when Harry tested it out with a hand. And it was a bit warped—with one corner lifted in the air. They’d pretty much ruined it. 

‘Transfiguration has never been my strong-suit,’ Draco said, through a sigh. 

Harry laughed. ‘It hasn’t been mine, either.’ 

‘Would it be awful if …' Draco started, trailing off. 

Harry felt his pulse quicken, as he looked at Draco—noticing the man’s stiffened posture. ‘If what?’ 

Draco sighed again. ‘If we shared …' His eyes darted to Harry, with that blush creeping up on his cheekbones. ‘Just … shared. No funny business. We hardly know each other these days, and we’ve only _just_ really talked. And anything more would be _highly_ illegal in this country—and I don’t fancy getting arrested. Though the chances of anyone barging in are—’ 

‘It’s fine,’ Harry interrupted, laughing breathily. It’d be fine. Surely. They’re both adults. 

That blush deepened. Merlin, it was … cute. Harry didn’t say that though—it'd probably make the situation much more awkward. 

Draco pressed his lips tight together and vanished the monstrosity of a mattress, and shifted his bed back into its original position. 

He licked at his bottom lip. ‘Do you want something to wear?’ 

Ah. Should he really wear Draco’s clothes, and sleep in his bed? Well he didn’t really fancy wearing the same clothes he’d worn all day—even if he tried transfiguring them into something more comfortable. ‘If … you don’t mind.’ The two of them were probably vaguely the same size. 

So Draco went over to his dresser, opened up a drawer … and hesitated. ‘What do you usually wear? Full-set of pyjama's? T-shirt and bottoms? Just bottoms?’ 

Harry bit his lip. Truthfully, he normally wore just pants and a t-shirt. He liked his legs free. But in this situation, that’d probably be awkward. ‘T-shirt and bottoms would be great.’ 

Draco nodded at the open drawer, without looking at Harry, and pulled out a few things. He walked back over to Harry, holding a pile of clothes outstretched towards him. 

‘Are those okay?’ 

Harry took the clothes and looked at them. Green tartan bottoms, and an old grey t-shirt—its surface pebbled with age, and buttery-soft—and it had the Bulgarian National Quidditch team logo on the front. ‘How long have you had this shirt?’ 

Draco rubbed at his chin. ‘I don’t know … I think I must’ve got it in our fourth year. At the World Cup.’ 

Their eyes met. There were so many memories there—memories they didn’t need to mention. ‘Do you want a different one?’ Draco asked. 

Harry smiled, thumbing the fabric. ‘No. This is great.’ 

He changed in the bathroom, while Draco changed in the bedroom. The clothes fit well—a little tight in the chest, perhaps. It made Harry wonder, though: how many times had Draco worn that very shirt to bed? Over how many years? Fifteen? 

Once Harry came out, Draco was already sitting up in bed, with his back against the headboard, eyeing Harry with uncertainty. He had on a plain white t-shirt, and had his hands folded carefully in his lap. 

‘Did you use to have a thing for Viktor Krum?’ Harry asked, because—well—the _shirt_. 

Draco barked a surprise laugh. The tension had been cut. ‘Jesus, Harry.’ 

Harry smiled, walking around the bed to the other side, and sitting down—overtop the covers, for now. 

‘Maybe a … little.’ 

Harry laughed. ‘Me too. And Cedric Diggory a bit. And Oliver Wood.’ 

‘You’ve a thing for Quidditch players,’ Draco said, it wasn’t a question. 

Harry looked over, and saw that that blush was back. ‘Maybe I do,’ he agreed, shooting Draco a smile—then biting at his bottom lip to cover it up. 

‘You should know … sometimes I …' Draco began carefully. ‘Have cold feet, and they—well—seek out heat. All on their own.’ 

Harry let out a breathy laugh. ‘Okay. Noted.’ 

‘You don’t snore, do you?’ 

‘I don’t think so,’ Harry answered honestly. No one had told him otherwise. 

‘Good.’ 

Harry laughed again. This was weird. He tossed a look at Draco, who looked back at him, with a pinched mouth, but soft, tired eyes. 

‘Okay, let’s do this,’ Harry said, getting up and pulling down the blanket so that he could climb in. He took off his glasses, and set them on the nightstand on his side of the bed. 

Draco huffed a laugh. ‘It’s just sleep.’ 

‘Yes, you’ve said. No funny business.’ 

‘Exactly.’ 

Harry shot him an amused look, and arranged himself under the covers, with his head against the pillow. 

Draco looked down at him, from his sitting position. 

‘Are you going to—’ 

‘Yes,’ Draco replied. He sighed, then shimmied his way down into a lying position, starring up at the ceiling. ‘God, if you told me yesterday …' 

Harry laughed. He might actually feel … happy. He basked in the warmth of it, letting his eyes close. ‘I know.’ 

‘You’re a bit mad. You _do_ know that?’ 

‘I know,’ he said again, through a smile. ‘I’m sure that’s one of the many things you like about me.’ 

Draco made a doubtful sound, but Harry could tell what he’d said was true. 

‘Good night,’ Harry said, turning onto his side to face Draco’s profile—feeling fond and tired and maybe other things too. And Draco looked beautiful, there, a bit stiff with the covers pulled up to his chest, with his head making a dip in the pillow, with the outline of his face—the angle of his forehead, brow, nose, slightly parted lips, and chin. 

Draco turned just his face to look at Harry—his eyes dark grey, and wide-open, raking over Harry’s face snuggled into that pillow. Draco’s expression softened, and he blinked slowly. It was a look Harry wished he could capture somehow. Like in a photograph. 

‘Good night,’ he answered, in a near-whisper. 

His lips were parted a fraction, and Harry imagined himself just leaning forward, pressing his own lips to those. Just getting to see what they felt like … against his. 

Draco turned his face away to the ceiling again, breathing in slow. Then he leaned over to his bedside table, picked up his wand, and cast Nox. 

Plunged into darkness, Harry couldn’t see anything at all, so he pinched his eyes shut. He’d try to sleep. No funny business, as Draco had said. 

And sleep did come. Quickly and suddenly. 

And, at some point in the night, so did Draco’s bare icy feet. They snaked their way up Harry’s pyjama bottom legs, just a bit, to press up against Harry’s shin bones. 

Harry found himself blurrily becoming aware of it—half awake, half asleep—realising that Draco himself came along with those feet. All of him. Like he had gravitated there, closer to Harry. Breathing slowly, in soft puffs against Harry’s cheek, his hands stretching towards Harry, fingers just touching the sides of Harry’s hand—featherlight. 

Harry twitched his own fingers, feeling them brush up against Draco’s. A soft sleepy sound escaped Draco’s mouth—something tiny, something he wasn’t even aware of. And Draco’s hand smoothed over Harry’s—the pads of his fingertips grazing over Harry’s knuckles. 

Sleep came again, with the gentle comfort of hand on hand, of warming toes on skin.

~~

Harry woke again, with Draco sitting beside him, on the edge of the bed, with a hand lightly placed on Harry’s shoulder.

‘Mm?’ Harry uttered, squinting up at the man in the low light. 

‘I’m going to work,’ Draco said softly. ‘I just wanted to say goodbye.’ 

Harry furrowed his brow, blearily trying to understand those words. ‘Too early,’ he mumbled. 

Draco smiled—amused. ‘It _is_ early, yes. But that’s the job.’ 

Harry frowned. ‘No.’ 

Laughing, Draco squeezed at Harry’s shoulder. ‘Eat anything you like, there’re leftovers from last night still.’ 

‘Don’t go.’ 

Draco laughed again, his eyes bright, and glued to Harry’s face. ‘I have to. Things to do, lives to save, and all that.’ 

Harry just frowned. 

‘This has been … _nice_ , Harry.’ 

Harry reached his hand up towards Draco’s face, as Draco’s eyes went wide—but he didn’t move away. Harry brushed his fingertips over Draco’s cheek, but his arm dropped abruptly, because it was too early, and his arm too heavy to deal with conscious life yet. 

Draco inhaled a breath, blinking down at Harry in wonder. His thumb made small circles on Harry’s shoulder. It felt quite soothing … It could easily lull Harry back to sleep. 

‘In six weeks,’ Draco reminded Harry, in a low tone. ‘I’ll be in London. If you still want to …' 

‘I will.’ 

Draco starred at him, a muscle in his jaw clenched. ‘Okay … I’d really better go.’ 

‘Call in sick.’ 

Laughing, Draco shook his head. ‘I can’t do that.’ He licked his lips, and his expression turned serious. ‘I’ll …’ 

‘Mm?’ 

‘I’ll miss you, I think.’ Draco blushed, though it was harder to make out in the blue early-morning light. 

‘Then don’t go.’ 

Draco smiled, and the edges of his eyes crinkled. ‘I really must.’ 

Harry frowned, and Draco removed his hand from Harry’s shoulder. It found Harry’s, on the bedspread, and squeezed—just once. Harry squeezed back, and tried to hold on to it, as Draco pulled away. But Harry wasn’t successful, and Draco stood up. The mattress lost its dip from Draco’s weight. 

‘Go back to sleep,’ Draco said softly. ‘Goodbye, Harry.’ 

‘No,’ Harry mumbled. 

But Draco left anyway. 

When Harry woke up again, the sun was blazing through those ugly brown curtains. He groaned, and turned over, rubbing his face against the pillow. His eyes flew open. The pillow smelled good. The pillow, he realised, smelled of Draco. 

He lifted his head, looking around the empty room, as memories returned to him. Gentle touches. The words, “I’ll miss you, I think.” 

He smiled, and flopped over onto his back. Feeling warmth. Feeling well. 

Harry fumbled around for his glasses and his wand on the nightstand. He cast Tempus, and sat up abruptly. He’d slept a lot. The Portkey was set to take him back in roughly an hour. 

So he got up, used the bathroom, and changed back into his clothes from the day before (after a Scourgify to freshen them up). He folded his lent pyjama’s in a pile on the dresser top, and made up the bed. He ate a few more of the dumplings they’d had last night, with Afghan television playing in the background (just to have something to listen to). 

And then, finally, he penned a note to Draco, on his desk. He wrote: 

**Draco,**

**I’m not very good at letter-writing, I hope you won’t mind too much.**

**These 24 hours haven’t been what I was expecting. At all. But they turned out much better than I could’ve hoped for. (Though much too short).**

**I hope you’ve had a good day at work. I’ll be thinking about you.**

**See you in six weeks, then. I hope it goes by quickly.**

**Harry**

**P.S. You were right about your feet—I didn’t mind. Did I snore?**

Then, at the bottom, he scribbled his address at Grimmauld Place. 

After that, he spent a few minutes, just looking around at the room. Thinking he’d miss it—miss Draco. 

With a minute to spare, he grabbed the half-full bag of dried mulberries, since Draco had said he could have it, and pulled the Portkey out of his pocket. It was just a small metal bell. 

And soon enough, that little bell took Harry back to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have never been to Afghanistan. However, I did a lot of research regarding MSF work (reading interviews and articles) and I watched some VICE videos. But, I may've still got things wrong (actually, I'd say it's guaranteed). I think the only way I could be 100% accurate is if I contacted someone who worked for MSF in Afghanistan in 2009 ... but that'd be _a lot_ (for a 19K Harry Potter fanfiction).
> 
>   
> Thanks for reading ! ❤️


	5. Chapter 5

No sooner had Harry collapsed onto his couch at Grimmauld, did the doorbell ring. He groaned. Who could it possibly be? 

He picked himself up, dragging himself to the door. 

It was Neville, standing there, looking sheepish, on his front step. ‘Nev? Everything alright?’ 

‘Sorry Harry … It’s just, I couldn’t wait to find out what happened. When Luna mentioned you’d asked for Draco Malfoy’s address, and then when you weren’t home … Hermione found out at the Ministry that you’d booked a Portkey to Afghanistan. And, well … how _was_ it? How was Draco?’ 

Harry let out a startled laugh. (Because what else could he do?) Merlin, his friends were … well, overly invested. To say the least. ‘Come inside,’ he said, opening the door wider. ‘We can talk about it.’ 

He had Neville sit on his couch, while he went to the kitchen to fix tea. He certainly needed one. 

His Floo chimed, signalling a caller. 

‘I’ll get it, shall I, Harry?’ Neville called from the living room. 

‘Alright,’ Harry called back. 

He heard some voices, and then the whoosh of the Floo—of someone arriving. 

He peeked his head into the living room, and saw Ron and Hermione. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to see them standing there, grinning at him. Hermione sent him a little awkward wave. Harry just rolled his eyes, smiling, and went back to the kitchen to fix two more cups. 

Then a knock came at the door. Harry heard the squeaks of his floorboards, as one of his “guests” went to answer it. He sighed to himself, and took out one more mug from the cupboard. It’d be Luna, most likely. Well … he was glad his friends felt this comfortable in his home—comfortable enough to treat it as their own, practically. 

So, with five teas and a plate of chocolate digestives on a tray, Harry entered the living room, setting it all down on the coffee table, before observing his crowd. 

Yes, it was Luna who had joined them. ‘Well, hello everyone.’ 

He receives a chorus of “hi”s and “hello”s in answer. 

They’d all arranged themselves in a circle, sitting on his furniture. What was left was his rickety old rocking chair, which he didn’t know why he had. He wasn’t a granny. But, Harry picked up his mug of tea from the coffee table, and sat in it anyway. 

‘So,’ he started, his chair rocking on its own, as he looked from face to face, each peering back at him with poorly-veiled excitement. Well, except for Luna, who was watching him with a small, knowing smile. 

‘What happened with Draco?’ Hermione demanded, practically bouncing in her seat. 

Harry smiled a little, wistfully even. ‘We had a long chat.’ 

‘And?’ asked Ron, with bright eyes. 

‘And, he’s quite … remarkable,’ Harry said with a shrug. ‘Lovely, really … And handsome. And fuck is he ever _brilliant_. Have you heard what he does?’ 

Hermione and Neville positively grinned, Ron looked proud, and Luna’s expression stayed the same. 

‘Yeah, mate, Luna told us,’ Ron said. 

‘He’s a doctor,’ Hermione said, clearly in admiration. ‘And not just any doctor …' 

Harry nodded. It might be silly, but he felt pleased by his friends’ reactions. 

‘So,’ said Neville, leaning forward and fixing Harry with a significant look. ‘You like Draco, then?’ 

Harry bit at his bottom lip to keep from smiling too much, and nodded. 

‘And Draco likes you?’ Hermione asked, her eyes wide. 

Harry nodded again. ‘He said … he said he suspects he’ll always … love me.’ 

‘Oh,’ Neville said, with a happy sigh. Leaning back against the couch, with a sweet smile plastered on his face. 

‘You’re all … very supportive,’ Harry said, looking from face to face. ‘Thank you. In some ways it’s weird, but … I’m grateful anyway.’ 

Hermione smiled. ‘You always have our support, Harry. Now … when will you get to see each other again?’ 

Harry deflated a bit, looking down at his mug in his hands. ‘He’ll be here in six weeks. It feels like ages away.’ 

‘Ah,’ Hermione said. ‘Well it’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?’ 

‘It is,’ Harry agreed. It was just going to be a long while.

~~

And it certainly did feel like a long while. Harry had no choice but to try to fill his days—with cleaning the house, with shopping for a new kitchen table, with buying seeds for his garden, with popping in on his friends.

It was two weeks before he got the package. The elation he felt—the hammering heartrate and the sheer joy when he recognised Draco’s hand-writing—was nearly overwhelming. 

Despite how excited he felt, he took the box to his kitchen, sat it down on his new oak table, and put the kettle on. Harry was going to savour this. He took out a mug, and a tea bag, and waited for the water to boil—all while leaning back against the counter starring at the box with a goofy, embarrassing smile on his face. 

When the whistle sounded, he fixed up his tea, and slid into the chair nearest the brown-paper package. He ran the pad of his thumb over one of its edges. 

Well, he couldn’t wait any longer. So, he opened it. There was a package of Afghan dried white mulberries, one of pistachios, and another of almonds. Harry smiled at them all, carefully arranging them on his table. 

Best of all, there was a note. He unfolded it, smoothing it out flat on the table, and read: 

**Dear Harry,**

**No, thankfully, I don’t believe you snore. I did wake up once in the night, though, to find we were holding hands. I didn’t mind that though.**

**It’s been only a few days since you’ve left, and I think I’ve thought of you far too much. I hope you’re well. By the time you receive this, I imagine it’ll be just about three weeks or so until I arrive.**

**That also means it’s nearly your birthday. I’m missing it, and for that I am sorry. The nuts and berries I’ve included seem a bit lacking for a gift. But, if you still want to go on that date when I arrive, we can toast to your birthday then.**

**I hope you’ve given** ~~us~~ **our situation some careful thought. I certainly have, so far. And, quite frankly, I’m still rather overwhelmed by the way it all unfolded. I think I half-expect you to turn around, and tell me you’ve been joking. Maybe you really are married to Ginny Weasley, maybe it’s all an elaborate ruse.**

**But... I do remember the little things. Your hand reaching up towards my face, you telling me to call in sick—and not to go. I remember the way you looked at me before I turned off the lights... as if you may actually kiss me. God... I think of that moment... far more than I’d like to admit.**

**It’s surreal. Don’t you know that?**

**I’ve admired you for such a long while... your courage, your fierce loyalty to the people you care about, your goodness, your spark. I never thought... I never thought you’d ever even smile at me. **

**Well. I’ve admitted far too much already.**

**Take care, Harry. My plane comes in on the 18th. I’ll write you again then.  
-Draco**

With a smile on his face, Harry read it all over a second time—his heart felt fit to burst. 

It certainly was surreal, yes. And Harry wanted to dive in, head-first, and see where these feelings would take them.

~~

A few days passed. He had a small, low-key birthday celebration in his garden with his friends. Ron and Hermione brought Hugo and Rosie—they chased each other through the overgrowing plants—only managing to trample one black-eyed Susan pretty badly, which Neville was thankfully able to repair.

The next day, Harry went shopping to one of those expensive specialty chocolate shops. He picked out a box that had an assortment—one the saleswoman said was a popular gift. 

Then he went home and worked on penning a reply to Draco. 

**Dear Draco,**

**It’s just under three weeks now until you arrive. But by the time you receive this, it’ll be a matter of days. You’re so lucky, it’s almost time for you. But here, I have to wait. (I know, I know, “that isn’t how time works,” you may be saying.)**

**Thank you for the berries, almonds, and pistachios. They are so good. (Why are they so much better than the ones you buy here?)**

**And they are more than sufficient birthday gifts. And, honestly, you’ve been sending me gifts all year. Thank you. Really. They’re lovely. The only regret I’ll have with you arriving will be: no more mulberries. (It’s a sacrifice I am willing to make).**

**I have given us thought, yes. (And I feel the same as I did when I told you to call in sick, and not to go.)**

**Where should we go on our date? I’m thinking you should choose, since you’ve been out of the country for so long. At least... I assume it’s been a while. I actually have no idea of when you were last here. But, yeah, is there anything you’ve missed eating? Fish and chips? No, it’s probably some posh French restaurant you’ve been missing.**

**Um... anyway, I hope you like these chocolates. I just wanted to send something... And I remembered you often got chocolates in the post at Hogwarts.**

**Ah. Now what will I do for the next three weeks?**

**Well, I’m looking forward to seeing you.**

**Harry**

He winced a bit, reading it over. But, in the end, he decided it probably wasn’t _that_ bad, and sent it off.

~~

The time did pass, as time tends to do.

Harry went to Heathrow, as a surprise. He’d looked up flight arrival times, but ended up early to the airport on accident. 

He consulted the board that listed flight status. Draco’s plane was set to “on time”. 

He paced around, through the crowds. He people-watched, reading some of the signs people held up—welcoming soldiers, friends, or family. A few people, mostly middle-aged ladies, cast Harry knowing smiles. Probably on account of the big bouquet of red roses in his hand, and the nervous way he was holding himself. Harry smiled back at those people—it was sort of an odd humanity moment. Two people sharing a smile over something universal: love. Well, not that Harry would say he was in love. Not yet. But … he was certainly at least half of the way there. 

There was a flash of white-blond hair out of the corner of his eye. And Harry turned his head so fast his neck cracked. He rubbed it, as he spotted Draco, exiting, with a rucksack on as he pulled a wheeled suitcase. Draco looked around warily, and started off quickly towards the door nearest the taxi stands. He hadn’t seen Harry. 

‘Draco!’ 

The man whipped around, right in the middle of the hall, there. Visitors to the country, and citizens returning home alike, racing by him on either side. 

Harry pushed his way through, to stand in front of Draco, who, was eyeing him with a bit of bewilderment. 

‘These are for you,’ Harry said, breathlessly, as he pushed his bouquet of red roses into Draco’s hands. Draco held them, as if automatically, while staring back at Harry’s face. 

‘Thank you,’ he said softly. 

‘You’re welcome,’ Harry answered quickly. ‘How was the flight?’ 

Draco laughed breathily, as if he couldn’t believe Harry would ask something so unimportant. ‘Fine. Very little turbulence. I watched Julie and Julia.’ 

Harry blinked back at him. He’d personally never taken an airplane, and did not know what turbulence was. Nor who Julie or Julia were. ‘Well … that’s good.’ 

Draco’s expression softened. ‘No one’s ever given me flowers before. Thank you.’ 

‘Oh,’ Harry said, his heart hammering. ‘Well, you’re welcome. And … you gave me my first, too.’ He felt a blush creep on his cheeks. They were only talking about flowers, but it felt like more than that. 

‘I was going to write you when I got in,’ Draco said, looking fond, with eyes raking over Harry’s face. 

‘Yeah, I know … I just … didn’t really want to wait.’ 

‘Well … I’m glad you didn’t.’ 

They just looked at each other for a moment—Draco's eyes wide and open and … affectionate. Harry found himself glancing at Draco’s lips. Watched as Draco bit his. So, Harry took a step closer. ‘You know,’ he said, under his breath. ‘Homosexuality is legal in Britain.’ 

Draco laughed breathily, his mouth not very far from Harry’s. ‘Is it, now?’ 

‘Yeah. I mean, it’s frowned upon a bit, by _some_ people. But those people can eat dragon dung, if you ask me.’ 

Draco laughed again. ‘I see. And am I to take this as you having given us some thought?’ 

Nodding, Harry said, ‘I’ve given it much thought. And I would very much like to be with you, Draco.’ 

‘Ah,’ Draco said, starring at Harry’s mouth, now. ‘Well that’s good, since I’ve just accepted a job at Belford Hospital.’ 

Harry blinked back at Draco, incomprehensibly. 

‘That’s in the Scottish Highlands, Harry.’ 

Comprehension did finally dawn on him ... _Hogwarts_ was in the Scottish Highlands, of course. ‘We’ll be close.’ 

Draco laughed. “Yes, we’ll be close.’ 

‘But your job …' 

‘I’m ready to be more stable, Harry. To put roots down. I’ve thought about it a lot, in the last weeks.’ 

Harry looked at Draco’s face in awe. This was so much better than he’d dared to hope. ‘Can I kiss you now?’ 

‘Please.’ 

So, Harry leaned in—as Draco’s eyelids fluttered shut—and pressed his lips to Draco’s. It was a chaste kiss—just to get a feel for what Draco’s lips felt like, against his own. 

Harry pulled back, unable to keep the smile off his face. ‘We’ve kissed.’ Merlin, they’d finally kissed. After all those years … after all they’d been through. He’d had his lips against Draco’s lips, and they were fucking _nice_ — 

Draco opened his eyes slowly, and quirked an eyebrow at Harry. ‘ _Hardly_.’ He flung an arm over Harry’s shoulder, the one with the bouquet of roses in it, and pulled Harry closer—so that their lips were nearly grazing. And they both exhaled soft warm breath out their noses, onto each other’s faces. 

‘ _Harry,_ ’ Draco murmured with half-closed eyes, and Harry could _feel_ the sound of his name against his own lips. 

Then, Draco closed the distance, planting soft kisses on Harry’s mouth. Pulling on Harry’s bottom lip with his teeth. 

It wasn’t quite enough, Harry pushed into it, trying to get Draco to keep his mouth flush against his. Harry swiped his tongue against Draco’s bottom lip—which Draco met a fraction of a second later with his own tongue. 

Draco groaned, pressing back into Harry with gusto then, allowing their tongues to touch, to _taste_ , to _feel_. 

Fuck it felt good to properly _snog_. It’d been such a long while since Harry had enjoyed a good kiss … and this was likely the best he’d ever had. 

Harry’s hands found their way to Draco’s hips, pulling Draco’s body against his, kneading at him in pulses. And a hand found its way around Draco’s back, snaking up the back of his shirt to feel smooth, warm bare skin under his fingertips. 

Draco’s free hand was pressed up against Harry’s chest—over his heart, as their mouths moved in synch with each other. 

And it was lovely. 

It was perfect. 

Draco pulled away first, with dilated pupils, and a flush high on his cheeks. He licked his lips, as he stared at Harry’s mouth. ‘Now that … was a proper kiss.’ 

Harry released a breathy laugh. ‘Yeah.’ 

‘We don’t have to stay here, in the airport, you know,’ Draco murmured, still looking at Harry’s mouth—like he was a bit dazed. 

Harry laughed again, positively giddy with all this. ‘That is true.’ 

They made eye contact, and Draco laughed breathily too. 

‘So, where do you want to go for dinner?’ Harry asked, taking Draco’s wheeled suitcase in one hand, and interlacing his fingers with Draco’s with the other. 

Draco paused, and shot Harry a look. ‘There is this French restaurant I’ve been missing, Le Café du Marché—' 

‘I knew it!’ Harry proclaimed, grinning (like a lovesick fool, probably). 

Draco rolled his eyes, but gave a squeeze to Harry’s hand. 

And they walked out of that airport, and, into their new lives together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ❤️ Feedback is welcome - I'd love to hear your thoughts on it


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